Graham looks from one plate to another, from filet mignon to the most tender prime rib on the planet. “We should offer them both. I’d say they’re about equal, where flavor is concerned.”

I sit up straight at our little table in the private tasting room off one of New York’s most exclusive restaurants. We haven’t decided on a venue, but at any rate, this chef is going to be flown in with his staff. There can be nothing less for Graham Blackpool.

As for me, I need more room in my stomach. The more I focus on engaging my abs, the better I can fight against the unease that’s kept me off-balance since we went to Lakewood.

I never should have gone home like that.

One sentence, and my mother reminded me why men are never to be trusted.

It’s so complex with her that it makes my stomach churn. I love her, and fear her, and want to impress her, and want to be free of her. Even though I am free of her. No—not her, not the fact of my mother entirely. Only the icy sadness, the resignation, that follows her like a cloud. If I can prevent that from happening to even one person, I’ll have done well.

But there’s something else.

“It’s delicious. This is the best food I’ve ever had.” It’s no exaggeration. I’m full, but I take another bite of the pork tenderloin anyway, just to feel it melt on my tongue.

Graham’s lightning-storm eyes follow the silver path of my fork from lips to plate. “You don’t look like you’re enjoying it.”

“I’m enjoying it.” I tip my head back and close my eyes, the cool air of the room brushing against my exposed throat. “Oh, God, I’m enjoying it.” Funny. I can be funny, lighthearted. I can banish this vertigo from beneath my feet and take back my time with him.

“Too far,” he growls. “I might be forced to bend you over this table.”

“That would be awful.” I raise my head and look him in the eye. “I don’t know if you could bear to do it...”

He quirks one eyebrow. “Who are you, and what have you done with Bellamy?”

Heat storms my cheeks like an army laying waste to a shining city. “Being the version of me who doesn’t have a problem with any of this.”

“The food?” He looks back down at our plates, which have been reduced to delicious scraps. There is none of the beautiful presentation here; only the raw ingredients, scattered across the white expanse of the plates. “Is there an adjustment we should make to the seasoning? The chef would accommodate—”

“The food is perfect.”

“I chose this place with you in mind.” I’m sure Graham does a lot with me in mind. The way I look, reflected in those eyes of his, is the sexiest thing I’ve ever encountered.

“But not the wedding.”

He puts his fork down and takes my hand in his. “I haven’t had more details on what their little accelerated schedule means. I’m assuming the summer.”

My heart pounds at the sound of it. “That’s so soon.”

“It’s not a real wedding, sweetness.”

The dam across my heart breaks at the words and all the pent-up emotion from visiting my mother comes spilling out; a deluge so powerful, I put my hand to my chest. My stomach does a sickening flop.

Graham bends his head toward mine, his voice low and urgent. “Are you all right? Are you sick?”

I look into his eyes—his mesmerizing, pain-streaked eyes—and center myself there. “I know what we agreed to.” It’s a fight to keep my voice even and steady. “I know we agreed to do this. But I want—” A painful lump rises into my throat. I want all of this to be different. Different on another level. I want it to be grounded in reality. “I want a real wedding. A wedding that we plan. That we’re in charge of.” There’s a certain terror in telling him this, and it strikes me like the ringing of a bell. “I mean—if you don’t want a real wedding, to me, then I understand that. But I don’t know if I can—”

“Bellamy.” His voice is half-command, half-comfort. “Take a breath.”

I do.

“This is real.” He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear. It’s done up in shining curls, because we planned ahead for the media attention. There are photographers outside right now, waiting to hear what we think of this restaurant. It’s all been orchestrated, down to the optimum time for arrival. Down to the way Graham holds my hand, the way he kisses my knuckles, the way he smiles down at me while we enter buildings. “We’re making it real. We agreed on this...performance, but we also agreed on brutal honesty.”

“We did.” The lump in my throat traps my voice in a whisper. “But I know that men change their minds. I know that people—”

“Get your mother out of your head.” Now he is commanding, and it sends a shiver down my spine and a jolt between my legs. “I don’t know what that woman was thinking, putting doubt in your mind.”

I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him. But I’ve seen what angry men can do, and I know how pain can twist and warp a man’s mind until anger is all he has left. My mother’s eyes are burned into my memory, and no matter how Graham tells me to put her out of my mind, she’s always there.

She’s my mother.

“I want to choose for ourselves.” I sound so small and pathetic.

“Look at me.”

I look.

Graham’s face is wide open, and I see every bit of him etched there. No games. Only him. It’s rare for him to take down all of his shields like this, but he’s done it for me.

“I’ll talk to my brother. I’ll leave right now, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t—”

A buzzing phone interrupts us. It’s my phone, in my purse.

“Hang on. I thought I silenced that—” I pull it out to end the call, and catch a glimpse of the number. “Oh, my God. It’s one of the firms I applied to.” Excitement rolls over me in waves. “Can I—do you mind?”

Graham gives me a half-smile and waves his permission.

It’s a short call, the words of the secretary on the other end blending together, and when I hang up, I’m breathless.

“An interview,” I tell him over the wreckage of what our wedding might be, if we can’t choose it ourselves. “Tomorrow.”

He kisses me.

“Congratulations, sweetness.” The chef comes into the room and Graham straightens up. “Tomorrow, I’ll visit the White House, and you’ll have your interview. We’ll conquer it all, my queen.”