“This should do it,” Cara said with an air of satisfaction as she adjusted the position of a lamp on an end table. “We’ve transformed Ronan’s boring guest bedroom into an attractive chill space where you can kick your heels off, and while the bath isn’t as nice as the one in the master, it’s adequate.”

“It’s nicer than any place I’ve lived,” I said as I stepped back and took in the changes that we had made over the past few days. At Cara’s urging, I’d chosen a muted mossy green for the walls, and we’d hung several of her brightly colored abstract paintings. We’d replaced the original bedroom set with a beige leather Chesterfield daybed flanked by antique-white end tables, whose finishes were almost a perfect match to the one piece of furniture I’d kept from my apartment—my grandmother’s rolltop desk. Aside from the desk, my television, and a few favorite books, just about everything else had gone to Goodwill, since none of it was worth what it would cost to store it for two years.

“Your concept was spot-on,” I said. “Despite looking like a couch, the daybed is super-comfortable, and with the daybed and matching ottoman facing the television, the room gives the impression of being a space for me to retreat to when Ronan takes over the living room to watch football.”

“Or shoot zombies with the volume dialed up to eleven,” Cara said. “He claims that playing video games relaxes him, which is a mystery to me. What could possibly be relaxing about shooting three monsters while running from six more?”

“I kind of get it,” I said. “Video games aren’t my thing, but they’re one way of releasing stress.”

“I suppose,” Cara said. “Now that we’re done in here, let’s review our staging of the rest of the apartment before I head home for the night. We need to make sure that we haven’t forgotten anything.”

I trailed her down the hall that led to the main living space of Ronan’s loft apartment. As we passed the door to his workout room, which was closed, the whirring rhythm that came through the door told me that he was exercising on his rowing machine.

“The vases of fresh flowers were a stroke of genius,” Cara said as we entered the living area. “They add a splash of color and signal that there’s a woman living here.”

“I wanted to contribute something,” I said. “The bill for this fake marriage only continues to grow, and Ronan still has to put a rock on my finger.”

“A big rock,” Cara said. “There’s no doing this halfway.”

“I told Ronan as much when we signed the paperwork,” I said.

She laughed. “You didn’t!”

“I did. Given Ronan’s financial issues, I want to keep our wedding as inexpensive as possible, but that diamond is an investment in convincing Veronica that Ronan’s in love with me. He can sell the ring and get his money back when I return it to him in two years.”

“Going too minimal isn’t wise,” Cara said. “Given that we’re talking about a fake marriage, there’s no better cover than a big white wedding.”

“You’ve already promised to be my maid of honor, and I imagine Ronan will ask Jack to be his best man,” I said. “There’s no need for a retinue of bridesmaids and groomsmen.”

“It’s fine to keep the ceremony brief and simple,” Cara said. “Everyone hates long ceremonies, anyway. But the reception and dinner need to be epic. If you and Ronan throw the kind of party that impresses Veronica’s society friends, that could go a long way toward convincing her that your marriage is real. If you can use the wedding to push her to that conclusion, the next two years will be a hell of a lot easier for you and Ronan.”

“Then I’ll do my best to get her there,” I said. “If there’s anything I know, it’s how to throw a good party. Between my floral-design career and the catering jobs I worked during college, I’ve been part of hundreds of weddings.”

“You have,” she said. “Which is why I know you’ve got this.”

“At least the wedding part of it,” I said. “Thanks to ten years of sweating over wilting flowers, carting trays of lukewarm food, and witnessing bridezilla moments.”

“You’d better plan on dishing up a few of those yourself,” Cara said. “You don’t have to go total bridezilla, but you do have to put your stamp on this wedding—especially since weddings are part of your work. If you don’t, my stepmother’s suspicions will go through the roof.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll find a way to put my stamp on the wedding. Although I’m sure it won’t be easy.”

“Don’t overthink it,” Cara said. “Take one step at a time, stay focused on the goal, and remember that I’ve got your back.”

“Thank goodness for that,” I said as we entered Ronan’s master suite.

Furnished with a king-sized sleigh bed, matching end tables, and several large abstract paintings that were Cara’s work, the master bedroom was at the end of a short hallway that connected to separate areas with twin dressing rooms, closets, and baths. Earlier today, Cara and I had purchased duplicates of many of my toiletries and makeup, which we had used to stage the bathroom that was now supposedly mine, and most of my wardrobe now occupied the adjacent dressing room.

Cara stepped into the dressing room, which contained an alcove with a counter, a chair, and a well-lit mirror for applying makeup.

“This room needs a few finishing touches,” she said as she glanced around. “We need it to look like you’re using it.”

I stepped into the bathroom, opened the drawer where I’d stored my makeup, and grabbed two handfuls of items, before returning to the dressing room, where I arranged the items on the counter beneath the mirror.

“How’s that?” I asked.

“Good,” she said. “But I have another idea that will make it more convincing.”

She opened one of the drawers, went through its contents, and pulled out a silk dressing gown and a lacy black brassiere. She draped the dressing gown over the back of the chair and then tossed the brassiere onto its seat.

“There,” she said. “Always leave something for the maid to pick up. Staff know everything, and you can’t necessarily trust them.”

“I didn’t realize Ronan had a maid,” I said.

“Only a part-time one,” Cara said. “Josefina comes in twice a week for a few hours, and the one time I met her, she struck me as a very nice person. It’s not that I think she’s untrustworthy or anything—I just don’t know her well enough to be certain of how she’d respond if Veronica questioned her or offered her a fistful of cash in exchange for information.”

“We’ve mostly talked about your stepmother,” I said. “While she’s the one most likely to make trouble, what about your father and your half brother, Aiden? What kind of reception should I expect from them?”

“My father’s a very busy man,” Cara said. “Initially, he’ll just accept your engagement at face value. Aiden’s a brat, but due to his spoiled existence, he’s a young twenty-five and not nearly as savvy as he thinks he is.”

“So your father isn’t likely to be a problem,” I said. “At least not initially. And Aiden doesn’t sound too difficult to handle.”

“Beyond the occasional snarky comment, he isn’t,” Cara said. “That said, anything Aiden sees or hears reaches Veronica at the speed of light, so you need to watch your step when he’s within earshot.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s nearly eight, and I need to head home, but call me in the morning. I know you’re planning to work at Oasis tomorrow, but we can at least touch base via phone.”

“Will do,” I said and gave her a big hug. “Thank you for everything.”

* * *

After Cara left, I returned to the dressing room to grab a few items of clothing that I needed for tonight and tomorrow morning. With Cara gone, and the rush of staging the apartment over, the reality of my commitment sank into me. Although I’d spent most of the past three days in Ronan’s apartment, tonight would be the first night that I slept here, and the realization of how much my life was about to change wasn’t easy to grasp.

Any more than Ronan was. Over the past three days, he’d mostly ignored Cara and me—until last night. When Cara and I were putting the final touches on the last coat of paint in my bedroom, Ronan appeared with bags of spicy, savory Thai takeout, which the three of us consumed together while engaging in a spirited discussion about the Yankees’ odds of winning the World Series this year.

Last night, I’d felt the warmth of his attention and sensed why so many women had fallen at his feet—and into his bed. On top of his good looks, which gave Henry Cavill a run for his money, the man could charm paint off walls. When he’d arrived with the takeout, I’d been exhausted and paint-covered, but within minutes he’d made me laugh and relax.

But this morning, when I’d arrived at the apartment to meet the furniture-delivery men, he’d been gruff to the point of surliness and left the apartment before the delivery was even finished.

The man was an enigma. A living, breathing contradiction. And I had signed up to live with him and play his fake wife for two years.

Just then, he appeared in the entrance to the dressing room. It was the first time I’d seen him shirtless, and the sight shot an unexpected bolt of lust to my groin.

Dressed in navy sweat pants that hung low on his trim waist, the perspiration on his brow and the dampness of his dark hair testified to the strenuousness of his just-finished workout. Heat and a trace of musky male scent reached my nostrils, and my lips parted as I took in the thick, defined muscles of his shoulders and chest, which carried a light sheen of sweat. My gaze dipped lower, following the ripples of his corded abs, tracing the line of hair that led downward, before I caught myself and tore my gaze away from the generously sized package that his sweat pants did little to conceal.

With unsteady hands, I resumed stacking the clothes that I had come here to retrieve, hoping that he hadn’t noticed me gaping at him.

“Like what you see?” he said.

Annoyed that he’d caught me, I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Looks like you worked up a sweat.”

His expression told me that he hadn’t bought my cover-up. “Isn’t that the point of working out?”

I wrinkled my nose at him. “You could seriously use a shower.”

“That’s where I’m headed now,” he said. “Before I go, is my apartment pretty enough for you yet? You and my sister have been at it for three days.”

My annoyance grew. Cara and I had worked our butts off to stage the apartment, and he hadn’t lifted a finger to help. On the contrary, aside from the one night he’d deigned to show up with the takeout, the man had gone about his life as if nothing out of the ordinary was taking place around him.

“Cara and I are finished,” I said. “If you’re done working off your sexual tension, perhaps you’d care to look at what we’ve done with the guest bedroom.”

He leaned against the doorframe and regarded me. “The one with the bed of nails I bought for you?”

Something snapped inside me. “That’s right, Ronan,” I said sweetly. “The very one. And thank you for the guillotine you put in the shower. That was thoughtful of you.”

A slow smile spread across his face, and he released a chuckle. “You’re quick.”

“Unfortunately, when it comes to your reputation, I’ve heard the same about you.”

His eyes narrowed and his smile vanished. “Unfortunately for you, Ava, finding out the truth isn’t part of our contract.”

“If it had been, I wouldn’t have signed it.”

“Your loss,” he said, before turning away and disappearing into his dressing area. A second later, a door slammed shut and the water turned on.

I seized my pile of clothes, left the master suite, returned to my room, and closed the door behind me, before dropping the clothes on the ottoman and slumping onto my daybed, my “bed of nails” as Ronan called it.

Bed of nails indeed. When I’d signed the contract with him, I’d believed that I was signing on to marry a nice guy to whom I was mildly attracted. Nothing special, just the whiff of lust that any red-blooded woman would feel toward such a good-looking man.

The last thing I needed was a case of the hots for my soon-to-be fake husband. Beyond his history as a confirmed man-whore, the two of us simply didn’t get along. While Ronan was more than capable of turning on the charm, he could also be abrasive and difficult.

Was what I’d felt in the dressing room no more than the consequence of years of celibacy and a sudden, unexpected confrontation with a hotter-than-hell, half-naked man?

With all my heart, I hoped that it was.