We’re only pretending to be a couple, but when Cage tells me he’s taking me out that night to dinner and then the opening of an art gallery, it all seems too real.

For this dress rehearsal for the dinner with Igor Vasiliev, I show Cage a black-lace, tea-length cocktail dress and high-heeled sandals from my closet. He approves. He tells me that he’d like to see what I select for the actual dinner and that I’ll be having a hair and makeup specialist come here to shine me up that evening.

But tonight I’m on my own, so I get dressed with great care, styling my hair so it trails over one shoulder, doing my best with my makeup.

It’s as if I’m going on a first date with a guy, breathless and eager, even though this is only business.

I stuff a little handbag with my necessaries and wait for Cage in the ornate entry. When he emerges from the hallway, he slows his steps.

We look at each other—I, taking in every detail of him in his dark suit; he, lavishing me with a gaze so approving and famished that my pulse trembles.

“Did I ace lesson one?” I ask.

“Straight As.”

“So I look like I could actually be your girlfriend.”

“You look…”

As he trails off with that sensual fire in his gaze, I remember what he said last night about how gorgeous I am. The fact that he doesn’t say it now feels even more powerful, as if there’s no word for me.

Maybe he is right, and I need to start looking at myself in a different way.

He opens the door and escorts me into the elevator. We’re joined by other people on the way down, and every time one of them glances at me and smiles, I feel Cage’s approval as well as a possessive hum that never stops filling the space between us.

After a ride in his limo, where he has champagne waiting for us, we’re dropped off at what Cage calls a neo-bistro on the Lower East Side. The moment we enter the restaurant, the exclusivity of the blushing lights and high-backed booths strikes me as being very intimate. I see a pair of big box-office movie stars in one corner, and they acknowledge Cage. Everyone else merely stares—and not only at him.

I already had a glass of champagne to settle my nerves, so I’m rather giddy at this new feeling of empowerment. I feel people staring at me…at us, and I have to keep telling myself that this is just an act.

The maître d’ leaves us with menus, and as soon as our waiter reports to us, Cage orders a fine wine. As he interacts with the waiter, I inspect everything around us, wanting to be observant. It’s just that I’m so happy to be here, so stoked about the possibility of getting Cage this huge deal with Igor Vasiliev. I’m going to do everything I can to see that it happens.

I’m in the process of picking up the cool salt- and peppershakers that look like fancy wooden chess pieces when the waiter leaves.

Cage is staring at me.

“What?” I ask, showing him the shakers. “Aren’t these great?”

“Lesson two,” he says evenly, “is not to act as if you’ve never been out to dinner before when we dine with Mr. Vasiliev.”

I put the shakers down. It was a tiny faux pas, but I understand. Mr. Vasiliev might think I just found my way out of a barn if I don’t act more sophisticated.

“I’ve got it,” I say.

With a stoic expression, Cage studies the menu. I know how much this upcoming dinner means to him, how stressed he is about it, so I let his mood slide. I’ll just have to pay more attention to what I’m doing.

I am sophisticated, classy, and experienced, I tell myself as I look over the small plates on the menu—gourmet oysters, exotic cheeses, succulent clams, different versions of beef tartare, then tarts and custards for dessert…

I concentrate on lesson three: Cage’s girlfriend would let him do the ordering.

When the waiter returns with our wine, I lay down my menu. Our server pours a splash of red in Cage’s glass, then at his signal, mine, too. I focus on swirling the liquid in my glass to assess the quality—it’s something I learned online before I got dressed for tonight—and Cage smiles slightly at me.

Nailed that lesson, thank you.

I sip the wine and swirl it in my mouth, then give Cage a brief nod. He allows the waiter to fill our glasses, and then the server takes our order from Cage and disappears again.

“I passed,” I say.

“Absolutely.”

He leans back in his chair and plays with the stem of his glass. “I was hard on you about the shakers.”

I don’t think Cage does apologies, so I take this for what it’s worth. “I’ll learn. It’s just that I’ve never been to a place where movie stars eat and billionaires order bottles of wine that…” I glance at the Cabernet Sauvignon. “I’ll bet this costs more than an entire month of what I earn shelving books at my school’s library for extra dough.”

“Then enjoy it, Karini. But not too much of it, if you know what I mean.”

“Aye, captain.”

For the next two hours, Cage coaches me on what to talk about and not talk about with Mr. Vasiliev. What it boils down to is this: If the man asks about how we met and other personal details, I’ll let Cage handle it.

By that point, I’ve got a wonderful buzz going from the second glass of wine the waiter poured for me while Cage took a quick phone call outside—the Cabernet Sauvignon is doing wonders to relax me during this trial run, and I won’t blow it for Cage. I want so badly to do well that I need to be relaxed. He’ll never know I’ve nipped a little more. And he’ll be extra happy that I’m in such a good mood when we finally get home.

And when we get there, will we be going to Cage’s room again?

What carnal adventures does he have in mind for me tonight?

After we finish dinner and Cage takes me back into the limo, I lean my head against his shoulder in the backseat. Soft, mellow music—something more suited to Florida than New York—plays over the speakers.

“You should limit your drinking at the Vasiliev dinner,” he says. “No champagne on the limo ride there either.”

“Okay.” I just won’t tell him how much I’ve had tonight and things will be cool.

“How much wine did you have?”

I hold up my hand and indicate a smidge with my fingers.

He tenses up next to me. I believe he senses a wee fib from the “girlfriend.”

“We still have the art gallery to go to,” he says tightly. “A friend of a friend is opening it with a photography showing.”

I slip my hand into his. “Can’t we end the lessons here tonight and just go home? I crushed it in the restaurant. After the shaker incident, I mean.”

I don’t know if it’s the handholding or the word home that spooks him, but he tenses up even more. I realize too late that I misspoke—his home isn’t my home, and I shouldn’t get too comfortable in it. Also, I suspect that to Cage, holding hands is far too intimate.

How weird is that after we’ve done way more personal things with each other?

He takes his hand out of mine, and as I flush, I sit up straight.

“Indulge me,” he says. “You need more practice as my ‘girlfriend,’ and this is one more opportunity to hone your act.”

Boy. Demanding much?

But I don’t argue. He’s paying me for my time, so I tell myself to suck it up, and when we arrive at the small, trendy little gallery in Chinatown, I put on my girlfriend game face.

After we leave the limo, Cage slips my arm through his. There’re actually a few photographers outside to snap our pictures, and I relax and smile for the cameras. Not too big, not too small, but just right.

Cage doesn’t correct my behavior, so I’m going to take that as a win. It’s our first photo together. Mr. Vasiliev will probably be seeing it in the society columns.

I’m just buzzed enough to not care about that fact either. If my family and friends see me with Cage Bryant in the media, I’ll just tell them my end-of-summer adventure was really an adventure, and it was sadly short-lived. Hey, if the royals in England can hang with commoners, why can’t I hang with a playboy billionaire?

Also, I’ve had worse things happen in life than a society picture. Just ask Liam.

We enter the art gallery with all its white walls and black-and-white photographs: portraits, landscapes, shadows and angles. There’re lots of people wearing severe black outfits—totally out of my element, and I suddenly feel alienated. Servers wander around with trays of champagne, and I eye them.

Right away, a svelte woman with square-framed glasses swans up to Cage. “He made it!” She talks to a short man with a white goatee and porkpie hat who’s come up behind her. “Cage made it!”

My “boyfriend” takes her by the hand and kisses it, then he shakes the hand of Trendy Man.

“Jennifer, Phineas, meet Karini,” he says.

“Karini,” Phineas says with glee. “What a beautiful name. Pleasure to meet you, darling.”

Ah—I sense a lesson presenting itself. This is a test to see how smooth and polished I can be whenever I meet Cage’s friends…or acquaintances…or whoever these people might be.

Jennifer only gauges me with suspicion, but since she’s standing way too close to Cage, I’m thinking she’s into him. That’s why she’s being judgy about me.

But I pull out all the stops from the book of Miss Manners, allowing Phineas to kiss my hand. Then I shake Jennifer’s.

She does hate me. I can tell.

“Cage,” she says, taking him by the arm. “You must see the Brooklyn collection.”

“Yes,” Phineas echoes. “You simply must.”

Cage grins down at me as if he has no idea about her interest, or maybe he doesn’t care. “Jennifer owns the gallery,” he says. “Phineas is the artist whose work is on display.”

I politely nod and seem interested while keeping my mouth shut. Better to come off as mysterious rather than embarrass Cage.

The couple leads us over to a teeny room with color pictures of the Brooklyn Bridge at different times of the day; they’re all lined up as if recording how the light moves over the structure hour after hour. Jennifer thinks it’s fascinating. Phineas preens.

I see a server approaching with the champagne, and I think about going for it before I see Cage catching me.

Okay, okay, I’ve had enough booze. But doesn’t he understand that I’m still a little nervous around these people and that I really want to do well for him?

As Jennifer oozes more compliments about the photos, someone comes in the room and tells Phineas that there’s an interested buyer. He’s off in a flash, but that leaves Jennifer, who keeps touching Cage’s other arm.

Excuse me? My boyfriend.

Maybe I’m making things too real now, because I’m the one who gets possessive. I snuggle up to him closer, just to show Jennifer that he’s off limits.

Cage’s arm stiffens, and I realize that I’ve failed this particular test, stepping over a line when I wasn’t supposed to, being too intimate.

But where is that line with Cage, and why does it always feel as if it’s moving?

After Phineas returns to fetch Jennifer, leaving Cage and me alone in the small room, my pseudo boyfriend looks down at me, his gaze darker than ever, his mood absolutely black.

Without him saying a word, I know rehearsal is done for the night.