Page 38 of If the Ring Fits

She looks at me dubiously, her eyes scanning my face with a hint of amusement. “Not even a little tempted to go to your secret clubs? I bet you all wear masks and no one would even recognize you.”

I can’t help the laugh that escapes me—a genuine one, not the strained chuckles I’ve perfected for boardroom diplomacy. “Rowena, I promise you, there’s no secret society or masked orgies in my schedule.”

Her lips quirk up, and she seems to mull over my response.

“Okay, then.” Rowena polishes the last bite of her frittata. “Monogamy it is.” She glances at the now-dark phone screen. “What else did you plan for our relationship itinerary?”

I swipe to unlock the device, scrolling through mymeticulously organized list. “Ah, public appearances. We need a few of those to make this all seem authentic.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Like what? Charity galas? Movie premieres?”

I smirk at the mention of movie premieres. “Do I strike you as the red-carpet type?”

“Not really, but hey, I’d prefer a movie than being presented as your sex slave to your masked orgy buddies.”

I downright guffaw at that. “I’m never getting that image out of your head, am I?”

“No, sorry.”

“Charity events are more my speed,” I say. “I have a few coming up.”

Rowena nods, her hazel eyes glittering with that humor I’m beginning to appreciate more with each passing moment. “Got it. And what about… couple things? You know, grocery shopping together, arguing over where to go on vacation, Netflix binges… that sort of thing?”

I lean back in my chair, imagining the domestic scenario she’s painting. The thought is oddly disarming, a stark contrast to the sterile, calculated life I lead. “Rosa does all the shopping and I haven’t been on vacation in years, but I’m sure we can find other mundane activities to publicly bicker about.”

Her grin is infectious. “No rest for the wicked,” she deadpans.

I tap my fingers on the table, surveying her—the woman who’s going to become my wife, in a manner of speaking. It strikes me how comfortable I feel around her, even during our peculiar discussion. “And as for Netflix, I can’t remember the last time I watched something that wasn’t news or market analysis.”

She rolls her eyes. “Your life sounds riveting.”

“Wait, it gets better,” I tease. “Sometimes, I even read financial reports before bed. It’s like a bedtime story, but instead of sending you to sleep, it just gives you anxiety about the Asian markets.”

Her laughter fills the room, warm and infectious. It’s been so long since my home has echoed with anything other than the click of a laptop or the distant hum of New York City.

“So, are we going to schedule in ‘Netflix and chill’ on that phone of yours?” Rowena asks with raised eyebrows.

She’s not meaningthatkind of chill, is she? And why don’t I find the idea unappealing?

I tap on the screen thoughtfully. “I don’t…”

“I’m just messing with you.” Rowena smiles then shifts on her seat and stretches sideways as if the chair is uncomfortable. Time to move the conversation to the living room.

I scoop up our plates and walk them over to the sink. “I’ll leave these here for Rosa in the morning. Want to move to the couch?”

Rowena nods. “I’ll just make a cup of ginger tea first.” She busies herself with the water boiler. A minute later, she pours the water into a dark-blue mug that must be hers as white writing on its side recites:I am currently unsupervised.The boiling water engulfs the small packet of tea already inside the mug, steam rising in fragrant wisps. With the heat from the water, a second part of the writing appears in bright pink.I know, it scares me too.The full slogan on the mug makes me chuckle silently; it’s quirky and cute, just like her.

“How’s the nausea?” I ask.

“So much better; that doctor you sent me to is a miracle worker.”

“Glad to hear.”

With the mug in her hands, Rowena pads out of thekitchen and over to the couch and settles in, tucking her legs underneath her. I join her, keeping a respectful distance.

She takes a sip and sets the mug on the end table, her brows furrowing. “So, I was thinking… when we see your colleagues and they ask why I’m no longer working in the building, should I tell them the truth? That I got fired?”

I shake my head emphatically, my voice coming out harsher than I intend. “You can’t say that.”

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