Page 62 of A Forgotten Promise

I giggle, a bit too enthusiastically, and Corm tilts his head, frowning.

“I thought you were the one grilling tonight, sweetheart.” The honey in my tone is nauseating.

With his back to Diane, he rolls his eyes. “I’m making a chicken pie; did you forget, darling?”

Putting his hand on the small of my back, he leads me gently toward the reporter. The touch is feather-like and firm at the same time. It burns through the cashmere.

For the three steps between the staircase and Diane, I force myself to ignore the tingling that innocent connection sends through my body. But it’s impossible.

And what is worse, it’s not only the visceral reaction of my treacherous body. As sad as it is, his touch makes me feel safe.

How fucked up am I after years of being objectified, that my nemesis puts his hand on my back and it’s like a veil of protection.

“Nice to meet you.” Diane offers me her hand.

“The pleasure is all mine. Again, pardon my tardiness, and welcome.” I step to the side. I need a moment to recover from that touch.

What is wrong with me? I’ve always been immune to shit like that.

“We’re ready,” a male voice hollers from the direction of the kitchen.

“Great, let’s start.” Diane moves like this is her house, but I guess if her team is already in the kitchen, she knows her way. “It’s a shame you’re remodeling, but I think we can get good shots in your beautiful kitchen.”

I spy the large, black plastic sheets covering the entrance to the dining and living rooms. When did he manage to cover my handiwork?

“I want to make sure Saar feels at home here, so of course, she needs to add her touch to the decor.”

He throws my earlier words back at me while he follows Diane, without giving me a look. I trudge behind them, conflicted. A part of me wants his attention and affection to be real. It must be my sleep deprivation playing tricks.

Beam lights and two large portable reflectors make the kitchen less grand, more cramped. A way too familiar setup that should make me feel comfortable. Instead, sweat covers my skin, my stomach revolting.

Didn’t I want to escape this?

Corm leans in and snakes his arm around my waist. He lowers his mouth to my ear. “You look like you want to vomit,” he bites out a warning.

“It must be your company,” I hiss. “What can I help with, sweetie?” I ask louder and put my hand on his chest, playing my role.

His muscles tense under my palm. I swear it’s like any physical connection has a direct line to my core.

And why am I imagining how that chest looks naked?

“Why don’t you sit and look pretty while I cook?” He kisses my forehead and slaps my ass, sending me to a high stool by the island.

Asshole. “Diane, a confession, I can’t do shit in the kitchen.” I plop on the chair, and she climbs beside me, laughing.

“You and me, you and me.” She fishes a notebook and pen from her bag. “Where is your ring, Saar?”

Oh, fuck, I forgot about it. “Diane, I’ll show you the ring later, but I can’t possibly wear it at home. It’s ridiculously extravagant.” I think I manage to pretend how pleased I am.

“Only the best for my fiancée.” Corm winks.

Diane looks like she is going to melt. Like he was talking about her. “So, what was the first meal Cormac ever cooked for you?”

A humiliation pie. An asshole corn dog. A frustration soup.

“Well, I don’t know if that’s not too private, but it was breakfast.” I smile coyly.

Corm looks at me and smirks. I think that’s his way of showing approval. Not that I need it.

---