Page 71 of The Painter and His Poet

“You need a plan on how to take care of a woman?” Ben asks incredulously. “Here’s me thinking that you were well versed in that area, but maybe you’re not the Casanova you think you are, huh?”

“You know what? Fucking forget it,” Dalton says, pressing his hands against the table and moving to stand.

“Sit down, Dalton,” I say, throwing a look at Ben who just sniggers like a fucking school kid. To be fair it is pretty amusing, but I’ve got things to do, namely getting back to Harlow, and I really just want to get this conversation done, so the sooner he sits his arse back down in the chair, the better. “We came here to help. We’ll help. So tell us exactly what’s been going on becauseI’m getting the impression that bruised balls are the least of your concerns right now, am I right?”

Dalton grits his jaw, but he sits. “I bought Daisy an engagement ring, and last night I proposed at ‘M’. We kissed to seal the deal.”

“So let me get this straight, you took Daisy to a private members club, proposed to her in front of a room full of people, and then kissed her toseal the deal?” Ben asks, finger quoting the air as he flicks his gaze from me to Dalton and back again. “Even I know she’d fucking hate that, and I haven’t been best friends with her older brother for over twenty fucking years. Daisy hasalwaysbeen incredibly private, not to mention the fact kissing her was taking a fucking liberty.”

“Wehaveto make this look real,” Dalton argues, looking more than a little uncomfortable. “I couldn’t exactly propose and then not kiss her, that would be fucking weird.”

“Did you get down on one knee too?” Ben asks, flicking me a look.

Dalton clenches his jaw, heaving out a breath before answering. “Yes.”

“And what did she say?”

Dalton looks at Ben like he’s grown another head. “What the fuck else did you think she’d say?Yes, of course.”

“To be fair, I still thought she might see sense,” Ben replies with a shrug.

“So you took her to dinner, proposed, and then what?” I ask, because I can tell there’s more. Dalton is looking far too shifty for there not to be.

“Some arsehole waiter spilled a drink on her shirt, and so I bought her a few replacements, gave them to her this morning…” he replies, dropping his gaze to his drink.

Ben’s brows lift, as surprised as I am by the thoughtfulness. “And?”

“And then nothing,” he mutters.

“And you can’t kid a kidder. Fess up, Dalton,” Ben insists.

“Then I said she should have a massage in the hotel spa because I thought she’d benefit from some relaxation,” he replies, jaw clenching.

Ben and I exchange looks.

“What else?” I ask, because there’s no way this is the end of the story. Dalton hasn’t called us here to get a pat on his back for his efforts so far, he’s fucked-up somehow, that much is clear.

“And I found out that she’d specifically asked for that beefy masseuse, Tomasz, to give her a massage,” he retorts tightly, before gritting his teeth once again, that muscle in his jaw jumping with agitation.

“Uh oh,” Ben says, taking a swig of coffee to hide his smirk. “Another man’s hands on your woman, couldn’t have made you all that happy.”

“She’s not my woman. She’s my fake fiancé,” he snaps.

“Tell that to someone who’ll believe you,” he retorts under his breath.

“So what did you do?” I ask, leaning back in my seat as I watch him swipe a hand over his face.

“I fired him,” he cuts out.

“You fired a man for doing the job he was hired to do?” I ask, lifting my brows as Ben and I exchange another look. I’m pretty sure he’s thinking exactly what I’m thinking, and that is Dalton is in fucking denial.

“He put his hands on Daisy, so yes, I fucking fired him.”

“Because she’snotyour woman, butisyour fake fiancé?” Ben insists, needling him.

“I’d just like to point out,” I interject, “That this marriage is going to be very real, very soon. So unless you want that to change you have to accept that there’s nothing fake about your engagement or your impending marriage.”

“Semantics,” Dalton mutters, scowling at us.

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