Page 27 of The Wrong Promise

“Did you choose a dress?” He rushes past me toward his room.

“Good day to you too.”

“We have ten minutes to be downstairs,” he fires over his shoulder.

Jesus, if he’s stressed, who is going to calm me?

Jobe has been talkingon his cell since walking out of his room. He mouthed,lovely, when he saw me, then continued his conversation, leaving me to sit in awkward silence.

By the time we arrive at the restaurant, he is still in a heated conversation as he leans over to open the car door. When I don’t move, he stares at me expectantly. “Zara, we’re here,” he says, moving his cell away from his face.

“I know, and you haven’t uttered a word to me. I’m not ready to go in.”

He looks intently at me. “I’ll call you later,” he barks into the phone. “Don’t do anything until I give you further direction.” He pops his cell in his suit jacket and slides back into the car. “What is it?”

Those sexy dark eyes search my face. Is he really this clueless? “You haven’t spoken a word to me. Barely acknowledged my dress and if you liked it.”

“I said you looked lovely,” he counters.

“I need to look better than lovely,” I snap. “If we’re going to pull this off, then the conversation between us needs to happen before we leave the house. I’m not a professional actor and don’t have a switch I flick on or off to be in character mode.”

He yanks the door closed. “Ben, please continue driving for a few minutes.”

“You said you’d be here for me, and yet you’ve ignored me since you arrived home.”

“I haven’t ignored you, Zara. I’m still working. It sucks, but this is my life. I don’t have a finish time.”

I glance down at my hands, where I’m fidgeting with the purse strap. Maybe I’m being immature, but he could have acknowledged me and the work I put in to make myself presentable. Is it so hard for a guy to tell a girl she looks beautiful? Even if she isn’t beautiful in his eyes, the time it takes to get ready for a date should be recognized.

His large, warm hand covers mine to still my fingers. “It’s going to be fine. Stop worrying. Be yourself, and everything will work out the way it should.”

“Will it?”

“It will. He’ll be besotted with your beauty and then charmed by your personality.” He smiles, and while I thought I wanted to hear the validation, it doesn’t calm me in the least.

“Am I a ploy? The takeover is a business matter, not a show-off-your-shiny-toy at a business meeting.” I’m not sure why I waited until now for my feminist side to show her face.

He rubs the side of his jaw before meeting my gaze. “We agreed on this. He needs to see how much we’re in love, so he believes there is an element of trust and commitment in my character. Your beauty is a benefit. Not a ploy. Whilewe’ll discuss some business matters, it’s the light conversation about family that will seal his belief, and no one knows my sister-in-law better than you.”

I’m stuck on the part where he says we need to act as though we’rein love.

“But I like being single,” I murmur. I have embraced it and have no desire to start an unhealthy relationship again.

“And so do I,” he shoots back. “Everyone has the potential to act and pretend to be someone they’re not. Remind yourself of your douchebag ex-boyfriends and how they fooled you at the beginning of your relationship.”

He manages to make me smile by calling my exes douchebags and for taking my side. But he has a point. Everyone plays pretend at some point in their lives.

Ben pulls up at the restaurant, and Jobe waits for me to acknowledge him. “Are you ready?”

I take a deep breath in and nod. “I’m ready.”

Jobe exits the car and opens my door, taking my hand and keeping a firm hold on it as we walk toward the restaurant doors. He’s handsome in his ivory suit and white shirt with a black tie. I also never told him how gorgeous and ridiculously hot he looks, though I’ll never admit those exact words to him. “You look handsome, yourself,” I whisper.

He turns to me and smiles. A smile that melts panties and surges hormones all over the world. Tonight, it’s enough to ease my nerves. He squeezes my hand, a comforting touch as we follow the server around white, cloth-covered tables with tall candles as centerpieces in brass holders.

A round table is set for six. Three men are already seated and stand as we approach. Jobe makes the introductions and the two other men, one being Sir James’ son, Harrison, shake my hand. The other is Clive, a business partner.

As I approach Sir James, he smiles and doesn’t appear atall threatening. He’s about my size, almost a foot shorter than Jobe. He has thinning gray hair and a medium build. However, his designer gray suit suits him. His demeanor oozes sophistication.

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