“Did you mean it?”

I can feel the heat creeping up my chest, my cheeks flaming hot as I try to decide how to answer that.

Yes? No? Maybe? It depends on how much fun you’re going to make of me for losing a fiancé I didn’t even love and how hard you’ll judge me for wanting to get married for my Papa.

He sighs and his eyes soften. “It’s crazy, I know. I spent the better part of last night hoping you would forget and that we could just pretend that conversation never happened. But you know what? It really does solve both of our problems.” He pauses to let that sink in. “That’s why I called Kaede last night and had him draw these papers up.”

“What are they?” I ask again, hoping for an answer this time.

“What you wanted,” he says, handing me the papers. “A non-disclosure agreement.”

“An . . . NDA?” I ask, my brows furrowing together as he nods and hands the stack of papers over.

It’s not that I haven’t had non-disclosure agreements before. A lot of my clients are very private, and they know inviting me into their homes or businesses means that I might be privy to things that they don’t want anyone to know. It’s professional courtesy to keep your mouth shut, but to put clients at ease, I have a standard NDA I offer which states that I’m allowed to boast that I redid their decor, but that’s it.

This isn’t one of those standard agreements.

“Come on, Ross. Is this really necessary?” I reply, my voice rising before my brain reminds me that loud noises are a really, really bad idea right now.

I read the NDA over, expecting some standard verbiage about sticking to our story and not throwing each other under the bus with the media and our families. But then I notice the rules on page two. “What’s this shit? I’m to obey you at events where your parents or members of the company might be present? You’re out of your damn mind. Oh-bay?” I lengthen the word, tasting its uncomfortable restraint. I’m not a woman who obeys anyone or anything, and Ross damn well knows it.

“Obey,” Ross repeats, smirking. “My folks are a little . . . traditional. I need to show that I’m strong and in charge. Looks better for me, you know? Don’t get caught up on the label. Just stick with the intent of it and we’ll be fine.”

I growl, rubbing at my temples. “And if I want to give you a heaping service of attitude?”

“Maybe I’ll spank that curvy ass of yours,” Ross teases, but his voice has a dark undercurrent through it that I’ve never heard from him before. It says that he might actually try it, and in my head, I wonder if I might like it, too.

Still, a girl’s gotta have her pride. “You don’t know Italian women very well. We rule the house by rolling pin, capiche?”

“I’m sure we can agree on some limits to what I’ll demand,” Ross replies smoothly. “Never fear, Chickie. Though I’ll never admit it and will deny having said so, I like your sass.”

And doesn’t that stop my arguments in their tracks. What? Ross likes when I give him shit? I always thought I was annoying the fuck out of him. Huh, who’d have thought?

“I’ll even toss you this bone. I’ll sign an NDA too. I’m not going to hurt you, Violet.” Soft, sweet, weighted words that mean more than he could possibly know.

“And when this . . . marriage is over?” I ask, and Ross simply shrugs. “What’s that mean?”

“If we’re really going through with this, I think it’ll be best for both of us if we go with the ‘too young, too quick, irreconcilable differences’ excuse and not say a damn thing otherwise. We both walk away with the least damage to our reps from it, and the most benefit. I’d like for us to still be friends after all of this is over, or else my parents and sister are going to kill me.”

That actually sounds . . . not bad. I can tell he thought about this last night while I was passed out. Oh, God, did I snore? When I’m drunk, I sometimes snore like Godzilla having an asthma attack.

Back to the issue at hand, though. I consider his proposal. Vaguely, I remember being the one who proposed, and I groan internally.

“That’s fine . . . sounds good, even.” I flip through the continuing stack of papers. “But what about the rest of these?” I ask, reading over each rule. With each one, my irritation grows. “Seriously? I’ll answer the phone whenever you call? Even if I’m at work and with a client?”

“It shows that you’re head over heels with the love of your life. But I respect your work, and I’m a busy man. It’s not like I’m going to call for baby talk every half hour, Shnookums.”

“Okay, agreed. If you never call me that again. It’s worse than Chickie.” I see a shadow cross his face, but it’s gone too fast for me to decipher it.

“Take the blame if the story comes to light outside of one of us breaking the NDA? Are you crazy? It’d ruin me professionally.”

“Like the Million Dollar Man used to say, ‘Everyone’s got a price.’”

“Well, this one I’m not willing to pay,” I declare. Ross shrugs and sips at the rest of his smoothie. I know what he’s doing, playing the hard silence and making me sweat.

But it’s damned effective. He knows what I’ve got on the line with all of this. Papa’s happiness is first and foremost in my mind. Finally, I crack and concede. “Fine. If the shit hits the fan, it’s probably a better angle to say we were trying to make a dying old man’s last wish come true than to say your Dad was blackmailing you into settling down. But we need to circle the wagons to be sure nothing gets out. Who already knows about this?”