Page 23 of The Wrong Promise

She shrugs. “Franklin and you must own hundreds of ties. Girls love shoes, and you both like ties.”

“It’s not the only thing I love. Besides, what other use do you have for shoes?”

It takes her a moment to realize what I’m implying. Her makeup conceals the blush to her cheeks, but I see the shade of red on her neck. Her lips part, and I hope she is imagining being tied to the bed.

I know I am. With my gold tie, in fact.

“I assume you own other accessories. Otherwise, I’d be disappointed in the rumors.” I like the way Zara thinks.

“Rumors are just that. You have first-hand knowledge, after all.”

Her ruby-red lips part, yet she says nothing.

I throw back the rest of my whiskey and head to the door. I wait for her to walk out before locking it behind me. In the elevator, we remain silent, but when the doors open, she holds my arm to stop me. “What are we doing?” Her eyes are wide and afraid.

“Having dinner like I promised.”

“I’m going out to dinner with my best friend’s brother-in-law. Behind her back. This is wrong.”

“You could tell her,” I say wryly.

“I… no way.”

I pretend to be insulted rather than hurt by the sting of her horrified tone and say nothing, waiting for her decision.

“Okay.” She attempts to rally herself. “Yeah, okay.”

I place a hand on her lower back as we walk out onto the street. Inside the car, I check my emails for Hayley’s update. Nothing.

The restaurant is a small drive from my penthouse, and paparazzi line the pavement.

“My God, what’s happening?” Zara murmurs.

“The White Orchid is where the stars like to dine. Just smile and walk past. They’re probably waiting for Kylie Minogue or Elton John.”

“For real?”

As we step out, I nod to a cameraman I’ve seen many times and turn my head the opposite way when his camera flashes. Zara remains tight to my side, and when I check on her, she is focused on the ground ahead. I pull her close, an instinct to keep her safe. “It’s okay,” I say gently as I guide her to the door. I should not feel this content being on a fake date with Zara, yet my gut is telling me it’s exactly what I want.

Inside the foyer, the waitress leads us to a table by a window. I keep hold of her hand until we are seated. “May I get you something to drink?”

I glance at Zara skimming over the menu, and then her eyes round. Taking the initiative, I ask, “Would you like a bottle of Dom?”

“I-I… um…” she stutters.

“One bottle of Dom Pérignon and a glass of Blanton’s La Maison du Whisky.”

Zara is watching me. “I could have drank the house sparkling wine.”

“Not here. We’re practicing for the next date, and if you prefer to drink anything else, then I need to know. Because aboyfriend knows what their girlfriend likes to drink.” Fuck, that sounds good coming out of my mouth.

She rolls her lips while my words sink in. “It’s expensive, and I know it’s what you would drink out with your friends, but I don’t. Besides, if I had to drink a bottle on my own, I’d get smashed and say the wrong thing…” She pauses and looks at me.

Does she remember?

The magnetic heat of our bodies moving together. The broken cries as she begged me for more. The way she burrowed against my side, practically purring, when we finally stopped to sleep. And if she remembers, is this her way of telling me she thinks it was wrong?

I clear my throat as the waitress returns, popping the champagne. I gesture to Zara. “For the lady.”

---