It was pointless to argue with him. Moreover, I couldn’t concentrate on creating the Dream Wedding Dress—DWD for short—when the mystery of what Chase wanted to show me hung above my head. It was disconcerting to think he had a sixth sense of when Ethan was making a move and had chosen the exact same day and hour to show up. I followed Chase to the elevator, dodging the curious looks of people around me. Sven had his back to us. He was tucked inside his glass office, talking on the phone animatedly with a fabric provider who had screwed up one of his orders. But Nina was there, poised elegantly in her seat, watching us while filing her nails. There were at least a dozen colleagues—designers, seamstresses, and interns—who eyed us curiously as we made our way out of the studio. Luckily, other than Nina, I considered most of them friends and knew they liked me enough not to think the worst of me. Still.

“People are going to talk,” I complained under my breath.

“As long as you are the subject and not the one doing the talking, I cannot see how this is an issue.”

We entered the elevator. “I’m not like you. I’m not untouchable.”

“Madison Goldbloom, I wish you were touchable to me,” he said earnestly as the elevator doors slid shut on us in slow motion. “I wish that very, very much.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHASE

I took her to the biggest flower shop in New York City. A Midtown florist by the Empire State Building.

Mad dragged her feet and scowled the entire time like a pouty teenager, throwing looks over her shoulder to make sure we weren’t seen together. Most women I knew would pay good money to be seen with me. Not this one. Having her around felt liberating. Like taking a vacation from the chaos in my head. True, I was never going to offer her marriage, but I could still offer her a hell of a good time. This time, I was serious about making her mine.

Temporarily mine.

Hell, she could even reclaim her girlfriend title.

Bonus points: I’d get to keep Julian off my fucking case.

The plan was bulletproof.

We passed the florist’s display window. Bouquets of colorful flowers and a sign that said LOVE IS A BIG DEAL stared back at us. No wonder she was so obsessed with marriage and love—her parents had crammed it down her throat since the day she was born. I pushed the door open, waiting for her to walk in. Once inside, Madison turned to me, crossing her arms over her chest. She wore a yellow chick-patterned dress with a darling collar and a black velvet necktie and a youthful blush. Which, unfortunately, made me look like her perverted older uncle.

“What now? You’re going to buy me all the roses in the shop and proclaim your undying love for me?” She rolled her eyes.

“Not quite. I’m buying Ethan flowers.”

“You’re buying Ethan flowers?” Madison echoed, letting her mouth drop into a perfect O shape.

“Yes. And myself.”

“And yourself.”

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” I inquired politely.

“Yes, until you make some sort of sense to me.”

“Very well.” I took her hand in mine—the second time we’d held hands in a week—dragging her deeper into the store. The scent of pollen was so thickly sweet I almost gagged. I didn’t know how Mad could like it. But of course she could. It smelled like her childhood and nostalgia and her mother. I didn’t know how I hadn’t thought of it before. Kudos to Ethan for figuring it out before me. Flowers. Simply fucking genius.

“I understand you have some reservations regarding our relationship and would like to tweak the fine print of our arrangement. Remember I told you I want to keep doing this until my father passes away?” I asked, ignoring how bitter the words felt in my mouth.

Dad was feeling like shit, but he continued coming to work every day. Julian was running around dropping hints about the state of Dad’s health to shareholders and investors, anonymously tipping the media about a major change coming on the board. Grant had caught him in the act, after Julian had checked into a hotel room twenty minutes before a Wall Street reporter was directed into the same room. My best friend had been at the restaurant in the lobby of the hotel, having lunch with his mother.

My cousin was definitely going for what we called in chess “the double attack.”

“By ‘doing this,’ you mean ‘doing me,’ right?” Madison frowned, her eyes roaming the place like it was a candy shop. She couldn’t help herself. She touched an orange-purple flower, fingering its velvety petal between her fingers and shivering with pleasure. That was all it took to make my cock jerk in my pants.

“Yes,” I said. “But I decided to give you the whole fiancée package at the discount price of just having your company.”

“What does the fiancée package include?” She yawned. Not a good start.

“Dating, movie nights, restaurants, fucking, meeting your dad.” I let that last one sink in, watching her face, but she remained stoic, focused on the flowers in front of her as she leaned down to sniff the sunflowers.

“I’m serious about this,” I added.

“You cheated on me,” she pointed out for the millionth time.

Not this old tune again. It was time she knew the truth. I touched her arm, making her gaze dart up to mine. “I didn’t cheat on you.”

She groaned, pretending not to care. “I saw you.”

“No, what you saw was me coming into my apartment with someone else. You didn’t see me touch her. You didn’t see me kiss her. I never did.”

“There were lipstick marks on your dress shirt.” She turned around to me fully now. She wasn’t whispering either. A thirtysomething couple who was very clearly looking at flowers for their wedding eyed us curiously.

Keep watching, assholes.

“It wasn’t my shirt.”

“Of course it wasn’t.” Mad threw her head back and laughed. A bitter laugh I never wanted to hear from her mouth again. It sounded foreign. Completely un-Madison-like. The woman next to the man beside us elbowed her beau, cocking her head in our direction. Un-fucking-believable. I gave the husband-to-be a what-the-fuck glare.

He shrugged helplessly. “Sorry, bro. Sounds like you kind of brought this on yourself.” He chuckled.

I turned my attention back to Madison. “The shirt wasn’t mine. It was Grant’s. He hooked up with someone. No, let me amend—he was in the middle of hooking up with someone and got called in for work. Understandably, he couldn’t show up wearing a shirt that suggested he was vacationing in Ho Island.”

“So you volunteered your shirt.” More sarcasm.

“Correct,” I gritted out. “Remember that shirt? It was white. I don’t wear white. I only wear—”

“Black,” she finished for me, her eyes flaring. She had a light bulb moment. I’d worn black that day. Hell, I wore black any day. There was a beat of silence. The couple beside us looked invested in our exchange, and I’d have given them a piece of my mind if I weren’t completely focused on explaining to Madison what she’d really seen that night.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway. So what if it was Grant’s shirt? The woman you brought home was real. I saw her. I guess she just followed you? No”—she held her hand up, smiling, but there was nothing happy about that smile—“she was just running away from an ax murderer, and you gave her shelter, right?”