Page 40 of If You Need Me

I stand there, mulling over his words. It doesn’t sound like Dallas got much sleep last night. He is absolutely correct; I’m aback sleeper. So the quest he was on would’ve been challenging, and rather ironic, all things considered.

A moment later he reappears, pushing a rolling cart with three silver-dome-covered platters on it. A bag from one of my favorite clothing stores dangles from his wrist.

“I called the office to inform them that you’d be in a little later this morning. Hammer said you didn’t have any pressing appointments until the afternoon, so I let you sleep in. Dry cleaning will be up soon with your dress, but I ordered outfit options so you had something to wear to work. If you want to have a shower, I had your preferred brand of shampoo and body wash brought up. It’s all in the bathroom, but maybe some food first will settle your stomach.” He taps one of the dome lids.

I don’t know how to handle take-charge Dallas, but food isn’t a bad idea. I can’t even imagine how much I must’ve drunk last night to feel this awful. I remember almost nothing after arriving at the bar. I have only the faintest inkling that I danced with Dallas.

I cross the room, uncaring that most of my legs are on display since Dallas has already seen me in my bra and undies. It’s not much different than a bikini. I take a seat at the very beautiful dining table, complete with a vase of roses.

Dallas rolls the cart over and sets a plate and silverware in front of me. He even spreads a napkin over my lap before he transfers the covered platters to the table. He lifts the lids one at a time, revealing the contents. One platter contains a variety of seasonal fresh fruit and an assortment of muffins and pastries. The second contains strip bacon, eggs, peameal bacon, sausage links, and hash browns. The third holds French toast, pancakes, filled crêpes, and an assortment of toppings, including flambéed bananas and peaches.

Dallas runs his hands over his thighs again. It’s a nervous habit. He does it a lot. Especially when we are at a promo op that makes him uncomfortable. “I didn’t know what you’d feel like, so I got a little of everything.”

“Thank you.” He’s being exceptionally considerate.

“I should’ve kept a better eye on you last night and traded a couple of those glasses of champagne for water.” He fills my coffee cup, then passes me the cream and sugar.

“I wouldn’t have listened if you’d told me to slow down.”

“But you would’ve listened to the girls if I’d said something. I’ll be right back.” He leaves me to load up a plate and returns a minute later with a fresh water and a bottle of painkillers. “For your headache.”

“Thanks.” I pop two painkillers, down them with water, and start with buttered toast. It seems wasteful and unfortunate that there’s all this beautiful food and all I have an appetite for is toast, but I don’t want to end up back in the bathroom for the wrong reason.

Dallas takes the chair across from me and pours himself a coffee, then digs into the pancakes.

While he drenches them in maple syrup, I study his face. He has dark circles around his eyes. I can’t believe he was up half the night making sure I had clothes for today and my work schedule was taken care of. Not to mention keeping me from choking to death in my sleep.

I don’t know how to feel about being taken care of by him. He owes me for the cluster he’s created, but this is different. He was legitimately worried. Everything he’s done tells me that. I still hate him, and I hate being stuck in this situation, but he’s also…really fucking thoughtful. It’s conflicting. As is the memory of the kisses we shared yesterday. They were most definitely the catalyst for all of my bad decision-making around champagne.

My brain is functioning at about ten-percent capacity, and my tongue is probably barbed this morning, but still I state the obvious. There’s no getting around it. “People are going to get hurt when this charade ends.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Your mom was so happy last night, Dallas.” She was beaming.And I like her. A lot. She’s sweet, and kind and exactly the kind of woman I would want as my mother-in-law. If this were real.

“Yeah. She was.”

“I’m wearing your grandmother’s engagement ring.” It’s stunning. And it shouldn’t be mine.

“I promise I’ll fix this, Wills. I won’t make this your cross to bear,” he says softly. It’s very clear that even though he continues to complicate my life with these media stunts, Dallas feels real remorse over how this has all played out.

“I’m not sure that’s possible.” Being his girlfriend was bad enough, but being his fiancée...

I push my plate away and stand. All I managed was two pieces of toast, a couple bites of egg, and one piece of bacon—but my appetite has disappeared. I leave Dallas looking forlorn and hop into the shower, wash off last night’s sins, and get ready for work.

I’m incredibly surprised—though maybe shouldn’t be—that the outfits Dallas had sent over for me are exactly my size. Option one is a pair of high-waisted, black dress pants, a pale blue chiffon blouse, and a white blazer. Option two is a teal dress with pockets. The fabric is soft, the cut is flattering, and it’s the obvious winner. He even bought me a pair of shoes, with a kitten heel, as well as fresh underwear. They’re nude, and seamless full coverage, but there are thong, bikini brief, and boy short options. Apparently, he wanted to cover all the bases for my booty.

By the time I’m ready, I feel less like garbage and slightly more human. “There wasn’t a receipt in the bag, so let me know what I owe you for these and I’ll e-transfer you the funds.” He must’ve asked Shilpa about my sizes.

Dallas is still shirtless. This is funny, since he went out of his way to make sure I was fully dressed but didn’t bother to get himself an extra T-shirt. Now he has to wear the one I slept in. He tucks one hand into the pocket of his dress pants as his gazemoves over me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was an appreciative sweep.

“It’s my fault you ended up in the state you did. The outfit is on me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Does it come with any strings attached?”

“The string is that you’re my fiancée for the next little while, Wilhelmina.” He moves in closer, eyes on mine. “As your significant other, who makes several million dollars a year, I will buy you things, including clothes. It’s my job to pay attention to you and your needs, and I failed at that last night.”

I’m too tired and my brain hurts too much to remind him that I’m his fake fiancée, so those rules don’t apply.

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