The next morning, Hans dragged Ruben to the dining room bright and early for ‘a meeting’.

He found a council of war seated at the mahogany table, sunlight streaming through the tall, glass windows like a hazy spotlight.

Demi sat at the head of the table, the set of her shoulders and her dark, winged brows giving her a militant air. She was wearing her glasses again, and her usual plain hijab, so she looked both familiar and austere all at once.

To her right was a round, faded old woman wearing a floral apron and a warm smile: Agathe. And to Demi’s left was Hans, who was staring at the side of Demi’s head with a brooding expression. Probably because he hated meetings, Ruben thought. Those two really were polar opposites.

At the end of the table, two more seats faced each other. One was empty. The other was occupied by Cherry, and the sight of her was like a punch to the gut.

Her lipstick was peachy today, instead of red, and glossy instead of… whatever the opposite of glossy was. Her velvety skin shone in the sunlight and her tight curls quivered with every movement of her head, like countless little springs coiled up with energy. He remembered how soft those curls had felt in his hand and wanted to kick himself. How had he fucked things up so royally with this woman? This woman, of all women?

Her eyes settled on him, gleaming copper in the light, and he tore his gaze away. He may be infatuated, but there was no need for her to know that. It would only make her uncomfortable.

Ruben bent over the old woman’s shoulder on his way to his own seat, pressing a kiss against her soft, wrinkled cheek. “Agathe.”

“Good morning, lazy boy.”

He clapped a hand to his chest, feigning pain. “Lazy? Me? How could you say such a thing?”

“You are late,” Agathe sniffed.

“Yes,” Demi said. “So sit down, Ruben, please.” She reminded Ruben of the staff at the Trust corralling younger kids with a rictus-grin. “I thought we could have this little meeting to, ah, collect ourselves! Get our house in order. You know, since—“

“Since Ruben dived into a shit show and dragged the rest of us along with him,” Hans said darkly.

There was a slight pause. Agathe looked aghast. Cherry appeared to be fighting a smirk. He wanted to kiss that smirk off her face. Then he remembered that he was supposed to be glaring at Hans.

“No,” Demi said, dealing with Hans on her own. “I was going to say, since we want to be at the top of our game for the ball next month.”

Ruben sat up straight. “Ball?”

“Yes,” Demi sighed. “You didn’t check your emails?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Really?” She asked sweetly. “During that two hour flight yesterday?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Demetria.”

With a sigh, she let it go. She knew how much he hated fucking balls. And soirées. And garden parties. And—

“Harald is holding a ball to introduce your fiancée to society. He expects you at the palace within a week of the event, to get Cherry settled in.” She said these words matter-of-factly, as if they were actually true. As if Harald cared about things like settling people in. More like he wanted ample time to tear Ruben apart. “So we have about three weeks to prepare. If this is going to work...” She looked at Cherry, who looked back with an arched brow and lifted chin. It was vaguely terrifying and unfairly attractive.

Demetria seemed to agree, because she snatched her gaze away and began shuffling awkwardly at the papers sitting in front of her. “If this is going to work,” she repeated, “you two need to pass as a couple. Harald is very observant—which you already know, Ruben, but it bears, ah… at understrege?”

“Emphasising,” he offered.

“Yes! Emphasising.” She threw Cherry an apologetic look. “I read better than I speak.”

“You speak beautifully,” Cherry murmured. And then, God damn her, she smiled. Dimples and everything.

Demi blinked, slightly dazed. Was Ruben mistaken, or was his stalwart assistant actually blushing? He looked at Hans. Hans, his bad mood momentarily forgotten, looked back at him with raised brows.

He wondered if Cherry was capable of toning down her charm, or if she just exuded it like a rose exuded scent. Then he remembered how frosty she’d been on the flight over and decided she could definitely turn it off when necessary.

But if he asked her to be less devastatingly lovely around his assistant, she’d probably kick him in the shins.

“Right,” Demi muttered, shuffling through her papers. He had no idea why paperwork would be necessary for this kind of thing, but Demi loved paperwork.

“Well,” Agathe rasped into the silence. Her youthful smoking habit had never quite let go. “This is very exciting, but I think not so related to me. It is breakfast time. Ruben, you want to eat?”

If he said no, she’d force feed him anyway; she had that determined gleam in her pale eyes, the kind she got whenever he’d been travelling or ‘working too hard’ and she was convinced only steak and plenty of vegetables could possibly reinvigorate him. Luckily, he was actually pretty hungry. So he said, “Yes, please.”

“Good. Demetria, Hans, have you had breakfast?”

“Oh, sorry, Agathe,” said Demi. “I have. And I’ve got a lunch meeting anyway…”

“I am fine,” Hans rumbled.

Unusually, Agathe appeared quite pleased by that fact. “So just Ruben and you, Cherry?” She asked. “What do you like to eat, min kære? We have eggs and bacon or we have ah, the cereals, or something else? Pastry?”

Cherry pursed her lips in thought and tapped a pink tipped finger against her chin. She looked like a fantasy, even though the pose should have seemed ridiculous. Or at least vaguely pretentious. Finally she said, “I bet you’re an excellent cook. And I’m not picky. I’m happy to have whatever you’d like.”

Agathe’s wrinkled face split into a wide grin as she stood, smoothing her hands over her apron. “Vidunderlig! I’ll start breakfast. Ruben, be good, ja?”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

“Hm,” she sniffed, clearly dubious. But she hurried from the room anyway.

“So,” Demetria said brightly. “Moving on. I’m sure that the two of you will get to know each other very well, rattling around this house, but—“

“Wait,” Cherry interrupted. Not in her usual charming manner, either, so smooth you wouldn’t realise she’d cut in. No; the word was blunt, almost blurted out. “We’re not going to be the only ones here,” she said. Her voice didn’t rise in question; rather, she seemed to be saying the words as if she could make them true via sheer force of will.

For what had to be the fiftieth time, Ruben was struck by just how much he wanted this woman.

“You kind of are,” Demi said. “Hans and I are here most of the time, and so is Agathe, but we all live in the main house, so—“

“Why?” Cherry demanded, her brow furrowed. She looked adorable. When did she not look adorable? Of course, she also clearly did not want to be alone with him. But for now he’d think less about the stinging implications of that and more about the little line between her brows.

“Well...” Demi began. She looked at Ruben. And so Ruben, with great effort, dragged his brain into gear.

“We can arrange for a lock on your door,” he said to Cherry, his voice brisk. “If that’s what you want. And I can give you a guard. Or whatever you’d prefer.”

“What? Wait, no—that’s not what I mean. I don’t—I mean, I wasn’t saying—“ She broke off, and for a moment he thought he’d somehow managed to render the formidable Cherry Neita tongue tied. But no. She shook herself and said, much more calmly, “A guard is unnecessary, and we don’t need any more people involved in this deception. I just… so, no-one was here last night? Except us?”

“No,” he said. “No-one. But the estate’s security is excellent. You’re completely safe here.”

Cherry huffed. “I know that. Never mind.” But then she added, “Why does everyone stay in that house except you?”

Ruben shrugged, trying to hide the fact that her simple question had his skin crawling. Familiar anxiety ground against him like teeth against teeth, but he sounded as collected as ever when he said, “I’m one person. I have a lot of staff. This house is small. That house is big.”

She arched a brow, expecting more. But that was all she’d get from him. After a moment, she clearly realised that, because she gave a little shrug. The tiniest lift of her shoulders, her gaze flat, as if she’d barely cared at all. So cool he almost forgot the hint of panic in her voice just minutes ago.

She didn’t want to be alone with him. Why?

“Well,” Demi said. Hacking away at the awkwardness again and again, bless her. “As I said, I’m sure you’ll get to know each other. But I thought we could cover the basics and make sure everyone is on board with the plan!”

Hans groaned, dramatically, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Plans, always plans with you, woman.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, all chirpiness gone. “You don’t have to be here, you know.”

“Good.” Slapping his hands on the table, Hans heaved himself out of the wooden dining chair. It creaked slightly, freed of his vast weight. “Ruben, you know where to find me.” Then he turned a winning smile on Cherry. Or rather, a close-lipped grimace, which was his best effort. “Ms. Neita.”

She gave Hans the dimples. Ruben was now convinced that she was flaunting them at everyone but him, purely to piss him off. It was working.

“Hans,” she murmured, her voice all whiskey and honey, rich and raw and sweet. “Call me Cherry.”

Ruben tried not to think unreasonable thoughts. Still, images of punching his best friend in the gut assailed him.

When had he become the jealous type? And over a fake fiancée who could barely stand him?

Hans strode from the room, leaving Ruben, Demetria and Cherry behind. Poor Demi. Her smile was melting away like plastic left on the hob.

But still, she tried. “So you’ll need to get the basics down—background, interests, and so on. A backstory that we can all agree on, you know, when and where you met. And—“

“Demi,” Ruben interrupted. He was talking without thinking again, but he was too tired to care. He needed a shave and a platter of bacon before he could have this sort of conversation. “You should go and do... whatever it is you’re doing today.”

She blinked. “But—“

“It’s fine. You have plans. Cherry and I can muddle along.” He looked at the sheets of paper trapped in her capable hands. “You made lists, I assume?”

“Oh, yes,” she admitted, looking down as if she’d forgotten they were there. “But—“

“We’ll follow the list,” he said, “and report back later. Promise.”

She released a long-suffering sigh. It was a familiar sound. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, Mother.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. If you insist.” She slid the papers over the table at him before giving Cherry a nod. “You have a phone in your room. You can call me at the house if you need anything—anything at all. Just press ‘02’.”

“Thank you,” Cherry said, and she really did look grateful. Because she was in a strange house, in a foreign country, with a man she barely knew and didn’t trust, and he should have thought this through, shouldn’t he? Why didn’t he think anything through?

The thought shimmered, twisted, transformed in his mind, reborn with his brother’s voice and his sister’s quiet spite. Do you have half a brain in that head, Ruben? Does the peasant part even function, little brother?

“See you later!”

He blinked back to reality just in time to see Demi leave.

Which meant that he and Cherry were alone. Utterly alone.

Well; except for Agathe’s singing, floating down the hall from the kitchen. He held on to that hoarse, wavering voice like a talisman. Pull yourself together.

“So,” he said, scanning the papers. And now he sounded like Demi. “We have the ah... the list. Basics, background, things like that.” He looked up. Cherry was sitting directly opposite him, her arms folded under her breasts, looking at him from beneath her long, long lashes. If it weren’t for the hard line of her mouth, she might look seductive.

Ruben gave his head a firm shake. If he couldn’t stop thinking about her like this, they’d never get anywhere.

“So,” he began. “How… how long have we been together?”

She shrugged. “Up to you.”

“You’re sure? You don’t have a preference? Something you’d like to tell your parents?”

“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “It matters so much that I tell my parents the most tasteful lie possible. I really give a shit.”

He bit back a smile. “Point taken.”

“Look,” she sighed. “I’m not trying to be awkward. It’s just… You know what you need out of this, right? I don’t. So when it comes to backstory and all that shit, it’s up to you. As for the rest, the personal information—if you give me the list, or whatever Demi made, I’ll write it down for you.”

“But if we don’t talk,” he said, “we won’t become comfortable together. That’s important too.”

She arched a brow. “You think I can’t turn it on? You think I can’t flirt with you?”

I know you can. I wish you would. I wish you could mean it.

“No,” he admitted. “I know you’ll be fine with all that. But I—“

“You are a bigger flirt than I am,” she said. “And we both know it.”

Ruben considered feigning outrage. Then he saw the dangerous gleam in her eye and decided not to bother. “Okay, fair enough. But if we were engaged, I wouldn’t just pull all my usual shit on you, would I? I’d be different.”

“How romantic,” she drawled.

At that moment, Agathe swept back into the room with a plate in both hands. “Here we go,” she trilled, setting them down with a flourish. “Now, I will be right back—“

Ruben stood, intending to help with the rest of the plates—Agathe had a rather poor grasp on appropriate portion sizes. Then he realised that Cherry was also standing, and his eyes narrowed. “You sit,” he insisted. “You’re a guest.”

“Exactly,” she countered. “Guests help. It’s polite.”

“No, hosts do everything.”

“That’s ridiculous. You—“

“See, this is the kind of thing Demi means. We can’t just write down the shit on her list and get to know each other,” Ruben insisted. “We have to spend time together.”

Agathe appeared again. In the time it had taken them to have their ridiculous argument, she’d fetched a small mountain of muesli. And a platter of fruit salad. Jesus, she was really going for it.

“Fine,” Cherry said, sitting down slowly. She murmured her thanks to Agathe and grabbed a piece of toasted rye bread, looking at it as if it was some kind of alien substance. Finally, she shook her head and met Ruben’s eyes. “We’ll do this, then. We’ll eat together. We’ve both got to eat, after all.”

Ruben’s heart leapt. He was relieved, he told himself. He wanted this to go smoothly. That was all. “I’m usually out for lunch. And breakfast. Dinner?”

She arched a brow. “What do you do at lunch?”

“I’m at work.”

“Work?” She spluttered, reaching for a glass of orange juice. “You have a job?”

He shrugged. “I have an occupation. Every man needs one.”

“Right… Okay. So, um… What should I do?”

Ruben tried not to be disappointed by the fact that she hadn’t asked about his job. “That’s up to you. You can go anywhere you want as long as you run it by Hans first, so he can deal with the security. And Demi will give you access to my bank account—“

“Why would I need access to your bank account? Aren’t you paying me?”

“Of course. But if you decide you want to spend the next few weeks, I don’t know, re-decorating my library—“

“You have a library?” She demanded, her voice sharp. “Where?”

“Ah, it’s nothing major. It’s just a room with a ton of books.”

“Whose books?”

He shrugged. “No-one’s. Agathe’s. I mean, she chose them, her and Demi.”

“Okay,” Cherry nodded. “Cool.” She downed her orange juice and stood. “I’m gonna go.”

“Um…”

“Bye!”

Ruben sat and watched as she hurried from the room.

This was not going well.