MAFIA BOSS HIRED ME TO RUIN HIS BLIND DATE – THEN HE FORGOT I WAS ONLY PRETENDING

Clare Bennett was supposed to be the disaster.

That was the whole job.

Walk into the expensive restaurant, sit beside Matteo Romano, act like the kind of girlfriend no arranged blind date would want to compete with, and make Vanessa Ricci leave before dessert.

No tears.

No scandal.

No smashed glasses.

Just one carefully manufactured misunderstanding.

But thirty minutes into the evening, Clare had her chair pulled too close to Matteo’s, her hand resting on his sleeve, and a white napkin pressed gently to the corner of his mouth.

There was nothing on his face.

They both knew it.

Matteo Romano, a man whose silence had made grown men sweat across conference tables, stared at her like he was deciding whether she was brave, reckless, or completely impossible.

Clare dabbed his cheek again.

His dark eyes narrowed.

“There is nothing there.”

“I know.”

His expression changed by a fraction.

Only a fraction, but Clare caught it because actresses survived by noticing what other people tried to hide.

Matteo caught her wrist, not roughly, but firmly enough to remind her that most people did not touch him without permission.

“Then what are you doing?”

Clare did not move her head.

Her eyes slid toward the entrance.

“Giving her something to misunderstand.”

Matteo followed the direction of her glance.

At the front of the restaurant, the doors were still closed, but anyone could walk in at any moment.

His blind date.

His grandmother.

Some aunt with a dangerous amount of curiosity.

Anyone.

Slowly, Matteo released her wrist.

Clare smiled as if she had won a tiny war.

“You are impressed.”

“No.”

“You paused.”

“I was reconsidering my decisions.”

“That sounds like admiration with emotional problems.”

Matteo stared at her.

Clare smiled sweeter and returned the napkin to his face.

Twenty feet away, two of Matteo’s security men suddenly found the wall fascinating.

They had been watching Clare Bennett for half an hour, and neither could understand why she was still breathing normally.

People did not tease Matteo Romano.

People did not correct Matteo Romano.

People certainly did not grab his chin and wipe an imaginary stain from his mouth in public.

Clare had done all three before appetizers.

And the strangest part was not that Clare had dared.

The strangest part was that Matteo was allowing it.

He had chosen her himself.

That was what made the whole evening even more ridiculous.

She was not his girlfriend.

She was not even his date.

She was an actress.

A very well-paid actress.

Three nights earlier, Matteo had watched her perform on a small stage during a private event he had attended for business.

A piece of scenery had collapsed in the middle of the scene.

Most performers would have frozen.

Clare had turned, looked at the fallen wall, and improvised a line so sharp the entire room had burst into laughter.

Even Matteo had laughed.

He had not meant to.

He had actually resented it.

A man like Matteo Romano did not appreciate being ambushed by joy.

But he remembered her.

He remembered the way she stood under stage lights, confident in her body, quick with her words, fearless in the face of disaster.

So when Carlo Ricci began pressing for a closer alliance between families, and Matteo’s grandmother innocently arranged a dinner with Carlo’s daughter Vanessa, Matteo thought of Clare.

He needed someone impossible to ignore.

Someone warm enough to look believable and bold enough to make Vanessa uncomfortable.

Someone who could step into a trap and make it look like theater.

Clare Bennett had seemed perfect.

Now, as she adjusted the collar of a shirt that needed no adjustment, Matteo was beginning to wonder whether he had invited the trap to sit beside him.

Clare leaned back and studied him with troubling seriousness.

“What?”

“You are too relaxed.”

“I am sitting.”

“Exactly.”

Matteo looked down at himself, then back at her.

Clare gestured at his entire posture.

“If I am supposed to be your girlfriend, you need to look like you actually like me.”

“I chose you to frighten another woman away.”

“Yes.”

“Why would I look happy about that?”

Clare paused.

For once, he had a point.

Only briefly.

Then she pulled her chair closer.

The space between them disappeared.

Matteo looked down at the new distance.

He looked back at Clare.

She smiled.

“Problem solved.”

Matteo said nothing.

That had quickly become his safest response around her.

Questions encouraged her.

Statements challenged her.

Silence at least gave him the illusion of control.

Clare reached toward his shirt again.

Matteo caught her hand.

“What now?”

“Your collar.”

“There is nothing wrong with my collar.”

“There is if your girlfriend says there is.”

“You are not my girlfriend.”

Clare’s brows lifted.

Matteo realized his mistake half a second too late.

She leaned closer.

“Then why am I here?”

“To ruin my date.”

“Exactly.”

She gently slipped her hand free, smoothed the already perfect collar, and smiled.

“So until she leaves, I am your girlfriend.”

There was something profoundly irritating about a woman using his own plan against him.

Worse, she was enjoying it.

Clare had known Matteo less than a week, and she had already discovered what men who worked for him avoided learning for years.

Annoying Matteo Romano was fun.

Especially because he did not react the way people expected.

He did not shout.

He did not threaten.

He did not slam his fist against tables.

He simply looked at you in a long, quiet, uncomfortable way until most people reconsidered every decision that had brought them to that moment.

Clare interpreted that stare as encouragement.

She leaned back and examined him.

“There it is.”

Matteo sighed.

“What?”

“The look.”

“What look?”

“The one everyone is terrified of.”

His eyes narrowed.

Clare nodded.

“Yes, that one.”

He stared.

She stared back.

Three seconds.

Five.

Seven.

Clare tilted her head.

“Honestly, six and a half.”

Silence settled between them.

Matteo blinked once.

“Excuse me?”

“Out of ten.”

“You are rating my face?”

“Your intimidation.”

Matteo slowly leaned toward her.

Clare did not retreat.

“Six and a half, maybe seven.”

His expression hardened.

She considered it.

“Seven and a quarter.”

His jaw tightened.

Clare smiled.

“There, much better.”

One of his guards coughed.

Matteo turned his head.

The man immediately became interested in the ceiling.

Clare’s shoulders began to shake.

“Do not laugh,” Matteo warned.

That made it worse.

She covered her mouth, but her eyes betrayed everything.

Matteo looked away because he had made a terrible mistake.

A massive one.

When he had watched her on stage, her ability to improvise had seemed useful.

Now he understood the danger.

Clare did not simply improvise on stage.

She improvised through life.

And tonight, Matteo had placed himself directly inside the performance.

He checked his watch.

8:03 p.m.

Vanessa Ricci was three minutes late.

Clare noticed instantly.

“Nervous?”

“No.”

“You checked your watch.”

“That is what watches are for.”

“You checked it twice.”

Matteo turned toward her.

Clare lifted her glass.

“I am just observing.”

“You observe too much.”

“Occupational hazard.”

She took a sip.

Matteo watched her over the rim of his own glass.

That was another problem.

Clare looked beautiful.

He had anticipated that in theory.

He was not blind.

But he had not anticipated the effect of the emerald green dress, the soft brown hair pinned loosely behind her head, the confidence in her shoulders, the curves she made no attempt to hide, and that tiny smile she wore whenever she knew she had irritated him.

Especially that smile.

It made him want to silence her.

Not with fear.

Not with anger.

With something far more dangerous.

He looked away.

Clare caught him.

Of course she did.

“You were staring.”

“No.”

“You absolutely were.”

“I was thinking.”

“About me.”

“No.”

Clare nodded thoughtfully.

“Very convincing.”

Matteo exhaled slowly.

“You understand I am paying you to make my evening less complicated.”

Clare set down her glass.

“And I am doing an excellent job.”

“My blood pressure disagrees.”

“That sounds medical.”

“It is.”

“I am an actress.”

Despite himself, Matteo almost smiled.

Clare saw it.

Her eyes widened.

“There.”

The smile vanished.

Clare pointed at him.

“You almost smiled.”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I did not.”

“Oh, this is wonderful.”

“What is?”

“You have facial expressions.”

Matteo stared.

Clare leaned closer.

“I was beginning to think everything below your eyebrows was decorative.”

His mouth twitched again.

She saw that too.

Then the restaurant doors opened.

Matteo saw Vanessa immediately.

She entered in a deep red evening dress, a black clutch in one hand, elegant and composed, moving through the room like a woman accustomed to being watched.

Matteo’s amusement disappeared.

Clare felt the change before she looked.

His shoulders did not move.

His face did not transform dramatically.

But the air around him sharpened.

There she is, Clare thought.

The woman she had been hired to scare away.

Clare straightened.

For the first time that evening, Matteo saw the actress take over completely.

Her posture softened.

Her smile changed.

Her hand settled on his forearm like it belonged there.

It was warm, casual, practiced, and terrifyingly convincing.

Vanessa had not seen them yet.

She was still walking.

Clare glanced at Matteo.

“Smile.”

“No.”

“Matteo.”

“No.”

“You look like you are waiting for a dental procedure.”

“Clare.”

“Fine.”

She moved closer instead.

Much closer.

Matteo turned toward her.

“What are you doing?”

“Working.”

Her fingers slid to his collar.

She adjusted it again.

Vanessa looked toward the table and stopped for one small, telling second.

Clare noticed from the corner of her eye.

Matteo noticed Clare noticing.

Suddenly, he understood.

She was about to do something.

“Clare.”

Too late.

She picked up the napkin, leaned toward him, and gently wiped the corner of his mouth.

Matteo stared at her.

Her face was inches from his.

From where Vanessa stood, there was nothing professional about the scene.

A beautiful plus-size woman sat beside Matteo Romano as if she had every right to be there.

Her hand was on his face.

His eyes were on hers.

Their chairs were close enough to raise questions nobody at the table wanted answered.

Clare’s lips curved barely.

Matteo lowered his voice.

“You are enjoying this immensely.”

“You are supposed to be acting.”

“I am.”

“That worries me.”

Clare almost laughed.

Vanessa began walking again.

Her expression had changed.

Not outrage.

Not humiliation.

Confusion.

Suspicion.

The unmistakable look of a woman arriving for a blind date and finding him already occupied.

Perfect.

Matteo relaxed slightly.

This could work.

Vanessa would reach the table.

Clare would perform.

Vanessa would grow uncomfortable.

Vanessa would leave.

His grandmother would finally understand that forcing him into romantic dinners was pointless.

And Matteo could return to his peaceful, organized, Clare-free existence.

Then Clare did something he did not expect.

She brushed her thumb over his cheek.

No napkin this time.

Just her skin against his.

Matteo became still.

Clare did too.

That had not been necessary.

They both knew it.

Her thumb remained there one second longer than performance required.

Their eyes met.

The restaurant faded.

The silverware.

The low voices.

The glasses.

Vanessa approaching.

Everything blurred at the edges.

For one strange moment, Clare forgot she was pretending.

And Matteo forgot he had paid her to.

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth.

Clare saw it.

Her teasing expression vanished.

Something warmer replaced it.

Something neither of them had rehearsed.

Then heels clicked against marble.

Clare pulled her hand away.

Vanessa had reached the table.

Matteo looked up.

Clare turned with a polished smile.

Vanessa stood before them, beautiful, controlled, and very confused.

Her eyes moved from Matteo to Clare, then to the suspicious closeness of their chairs.

Clare smiled.

Matteo waited.

This was it.

Vanessa’s expression tightened.

Exactly what he wanted.

Then Vanessa looked directly at Clare and smiled.

“Clare Bennett.”

Clare’s smile faltered.

Matteo turned his head.

That was not supposed to happen.

Clare looked at Matteo.

Matteo looked at Vanessa.

“How do you know her?”

Vanessa’s amusement deepened.

“Oh.”

She glanced toward the entrance.

“Your grandmother told me.”

Matteo stopped moving.

Clare blinked.

Then a familiar voice floated across the restaurant.

“Matteo.”

His eyes closed.

Clare looked past him.

A small elderly woman was approaching in an elegant dress with perfectly styled silver hair and a handbag tucked under one arm.

Her expression was deeply satisfied.

She looked like someone who had arrived exactly when she intended to.

Grandma Romano had entered the battlefield.

Matteo opened his eyes.

He looked at Vanessa.

Then at Clare.

Then at his grandmother.

Suddenly, the plan did not look nearly as intelligent as it had the day before.

Grandma Romano reached the table.

Her eyes landed on Clare.

Then on Matteo.

Then very deliberately on Clare’s hand, still resting on his forearm.

Clare noticed and removed it.

Grandma’s smile widened.

Matteo knew that smile.

It was the same smile she had worn when she caught him stealing cookies at eight.

The same smile she had worn when he insisted he had not broken her favorite vase at twelve.

It meant one thing.

She knew something.

The only question was how much.

Clare stood politely.

Grandma Romano looked her over, not critically, but with frank curiosity.

For once, Clare seemed nervous.

Matteo almost enjoyed that.

Almost.

Then Grandma took Clare’s hands.

“My goodness, you are beautiful.”

Clare’s nervousness vanished.

Matteo’s problem doubled.

“Thank you.”

“And an actress.”

Clare nodded.

Grandma’s face brightened.

“How exciting.”

Matteo intervened.

“Nona.”

She ignored him completely.

Clare glanced at him.

A tiny triumphant smile appeared.

He gave her a warning look.

She answered with an innocent one.

Grandma asked about Clare’s theater work.

Clare answered easily.

Vanessa joined the conversation.

Matteo sat there watching his carefully constructed plan collapse with astonishing efficiency.

These women were supposed to dislike Clare.

Instead, Vanessa asked where she performed.

Grandma asked whether she liked Italian food.

Clare laughed.

Somehow, Matteo Romano became irrelevant at his own blind date.

Then Grandma asked the question that destroyed the evening entirely.

“Are you free on Sunday?”

Matteo answered immediately.

“No.”

Three women turned toward him.

Clare blinked.

“I am, actually.”

Matteo looked at her.

“No, you are not.”

Clare’s eyebrows rose.

“I am fairly sure I know my schedule.”

“You have plans.”

“With whom?”

Matteo paused.

Clare waited.

Vanessa waited.

Grandma waited.

He realized he had walked directly into a trap.

“With me.”

Silence fell.

Clare’s expression changed first.

Vanessa’s brows lifted.

Grandma Romano smiled slowly and victoriously.

Matteo realized his mistake too late.

Clare leaned toward him.

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Very convincing.”

Matteo looked at her.

She smiled.

For reasons he did not want to examine, his hand moved naturally to the back of her chair.

Grandma saw it.

Of course she did.

Nothing escaped that woman.

Matteo had chosen Clare to frighten away one blind date.

Instead, his blind date liked her.

His grandmother really liked her.

And Matteo himself had just invented plans with Clare because the idea of her spending Sunday somewhere else had come out of his mouth as an immediate no.

That was concerning.

Very concerning.

The evening became failure dressed as success.

Vanessa ordered wine.

Grandma asked Clare about childhood commercials and small theater roles.

Clare explained how casting directors kept making plus-size women into cheerful best friends who gave romantic advice while holding cupcakes.

Grandma looked offended on her behalf.

Vanessa laughed.

Matteo did not.

He was too busy trying to understand how a temporary inconvenience had become the most popular person at his table.

Ten minutes earlier, the plan had been elegant.

Vanessa arrives.

Vanessa sees Clare.

Vanessa assumes Matteo is involved.

Vanessa leaves.

Grandma stops arranging dates.

Matteo gets his life back.

Instead, Vanessa was relaxed.

Grandma was delighted.

Clare was radiant.

And Matteo had lost control of the entire room.

Clare looked at him and read the irritation on his face.

That made her smile.

He narrowed his eyes.

Her smile widened.

He had begun recognizing that expression.

It meant Clare was about to make his evening worse for entertainment.

“You look unhappy.”

“I wonder why.”

“Maybe you need dessert.”

“I need a different plan.”

Clare considered this, then casually took a bite from the chocolate dessert between them.

Matteo stared at her fork.

That was his dessert.

Clare chewed slowly.

Her eyes lifted to his.

“What?”

“You have your own.”

“I wanted to know whether yours tasted better.”

She took another bite.

“It does.”

Matteo looked toward the ceiling.

Grandma watched with increasing interest.

Vanessa watched too.

Both women understood what Matteo was still refusing to see.

Clare was not intimidated by him.

Not even slightly.

People usually reacted to Matteo in three ways.

They respected him.

They feared him.

Or they wanted something from him.

Clare had invented a fourth category.

She found him amusing.

It was deeply inconvenient.

Because Matteo had spent years perfecting the ability to make grown men reconsider their choices with one look.

Clare had rated that look seven and a quarter out of ten.

He was still offended.

Perhaps because he was offended, he reached across the table and calmly took Clare’s untouched dessert.

Clare stopped.

Her gaze dropped to his fork, then lifted to his face.

Matteo took one deliberate bite.

Clare stared.

Grandma covered a smile.

Vanessa lowered her glass.

Clare leaned toward him.

“You are stealing my cake.”

“You stole mine.”

“I sampled yours.”

“Repeatedly.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It is now.”

Clare looked genuinely scandalized.

Matteo finally smiled.

Not much.

Barely enough to count.

But Clare saw it.

So did Grandma.

And suddenly, Grandma Romano was no longer interested in Vanessa Ricci.

She had found something far more interesting.

Her grandson had spent years rejecting every woman she introduced to him.

Politely when possible.

Efficiently when necessary.

Once, spectacularly.

There had been a violinist involved.

Nobody discussed that dinner anymore.

Yet Clare Bennett had been sitting beside him for less than an hour, and Matteo was stealing dessert from her plate like a boy who had forgotten he was supposed to be feared.

Grandma knew her grandson.

She knew the difference between tolerance and interest.

This was interest.

Matteo simply had not realized it yet.

Naturally, someone needed to help him.

Grandma volunteered herself without informing anyone.

By the time dinner ended, Vanessa had abandoned any expectation of romance.

She liked Matteo well enough.

But watching him with Clare had answered a question nobody had needed to ask.

Every time Clare spoke, Matteo listened.

Every time she laughed, his attention shifted toward her.

Whenever another man glanced too long in Clare’s direction, Matteo noticed.

Clare noticed none of it.

She was too busy congratulating herself.

In her professional opinion, the assignment had been a success.

The blind date had not worked.

Nobody had cried.

Nobody had thrown wine.

Nobody had called security.

Excellent work.

She stood and collected her evening bag.

Matteo watched her.

“Where are you going?”

Clare blinked.

“Home.”

He looked genuinely surprised.

“The evening is finished.”

“It is.”

She glanced around.

“The plates are empty, your blind date is leaving, and your grandmother has interrogated me about my childhood career and preferred pasta shape.”

Grandma objected from beside them.

She had not asked Clare her preferred pasta shape yet.

Clare laughed.

Matteo did not.

He was focused on one word.

Home.

For some reason, he did not like it.

That was ridiculous.

Clare had completed the arrangement.

She had done exactly what he asked.

Technically, she had done far more than he asked.

There was no reason for her to remain.

And yet when she stepped away from the table, Matteo stood too.

Clare looked at him.

He picked up his jacket.

“I will take you.”

She stared.

“To my apartment?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

An excellent question.

He had a driver.

Clare could call a taxi.

Security waited outside.

There was no practical reason Matteo Romano had to escort Clare Bennett anywhere.

So naturally, he produced the worst explanation possible.

“Security.”

Clare looked around the luxurious restaurant.

“At what point did I become a national monument?”

Matteo’s expression did not change.

Grandma nearly choked on her water.

Clare looked at the two security men near the entrance, then back at Matteo.

“I think I can survive the parking lot.”

“You are coming with me.”

There it was.

That voice.

The one probably responsible for terrifying half of Chicago.

Clare picked up her bag.

“Seven and a half.”

Matteo frowned.

“What?”

“Your intimidation score.”

She smiled.

“That one was better.”

Grandma laughed so loudly that several diners turned.

Matteo walked away.

Clare followed him, smiling.

Vanessa watched them leave together without the slightest offense.

The evening had been designed to scare her away.

Strangely, she was not bothered.

Because the moment she walked through the doors and saw Clare wiping Matteo’s mouth while he sat there allowing it, the competition had already been over.

Outside, a black sedan waited under the restaurant lights.

Matteo’s driver opened the rear door.

Clare stopped.

She looked at the car, then Matteo, then the driver.

“This is unnecessary.”

“Get in.”

“Eight.”

Matteo stared.

Clare smiled and climbed inside.

He followed.

The door closed.

For the first time that evening, they were almost alone.

The driver was technically there, but the privacy partition rose silently between the front and rear seats.

Clare noticed.

Matteo noticed her noticing.

“Do not.”

“I did not say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was wondering why your car has a privacy partition.”

“Clare.”

“There are several possibilities.”

“Do not.”

She smiled toward the window.

The city slid by in ribbons of streetlight.

For a few minutes, neither spoke.

Strangely, the silence was not uncomfortable.

Clare removed her earrings and rubbed one earlobe.

Matteo watched.

“Tired?”

“A little.”

“You did not look tired inside.”

“I was working.”

The answer changed something.

Working.

Of course.

Everything she had done that night had been part of an arrangement.

The touches.

The smiles.

The closeness.

The soft look in her eyes when Vanessa approached.

He had chosen her.

He had paid her.

She had performed.

Simple.

So why did remembering that irritate him?

Clare glanced over.

“You are doing the face again.”

“What face?”

“The one where you silently argue with someone who is not here.”

Matteo looked out the window.

Clare studied him, then smiled.

“You are disappointed.”

His head turned.

“About what?”

“That Vanessa did not run screaming.”

“I never expected screaming.”

“I did.”

He stared.

Clare shrugged.

“I prepared three different versions of unbearable.”

Matteo slowly turned toward her.

“Three?”

“Of course.”

Apparently, Clare had developed a full strategy.

Version one was the clingy girlfriend.

Version two was the aggressively romantic girlfriend.

Version three was the woman who had already selected names for their future children.

Matteo stared in horror.

Clare looked offended.

“You asked for convincing.”

“I asked you to discourage her.”

“And if the napkin had not worked, I was prepared to discuss honeymoon destinations.”

Matteo closed his eyes.

For the first time, he appreciated Vanessa’s emotional stability.

Clare laughed.

There it was again.

That laugh.

Warm, unrestrained, and completely unlike the careful laughter Matteo heard at business dinners.

He opened his eyes.

Clare was watching the city.

The performance was gone now.

No fake affection.

No exaggerated girlfriend behavior.

Just Clare.

Matteo found himself preferring this version.

That realization arrived quietly and refused to leave.

The car stopped outside her apartment.

Clare reached for the door.

Matteo spoke before thinking.

“Sunday.”

She turned.

“What about it?”

He remembered the accidental announcement.

The plans he had invented.

The plans that did not exist.

Clare’s eyes gleamed.

She remembered too.

“You told your grandmother we were busy.”

“I know.”

“So?”

Matteo considered several reasonable options.

Cancel.

Explain.

Admit he had said it impulsively.

Instead, he chose the least reasonable sentence available.

“We should probably be busy.”

Clare stared at him.

Then she laughed.

Matteo frowned.

“What?”

“You are asking me out because you accidentally told your grandmother you were asking me out.”

“I did not ask you out.”

“What would you call this?”

“Continuity.”

Clare’s laughter grew worse.

Matteo sat there, a feared man with enormous influence, being laughed at inside his own car because he had invented a date for narrative consistency.

Clare opened the door.

Before stepping out, she turned back.

“Sunday afternoon.”

Matteo nodded.

“Three.”

Clare smiled.

“Fine.”

Then she leaned closer.

For one second, Matteo thought she might kiss his cheek.

Instead, she whispered, “Try not to miss me before then.”

Then she disappeared from the car.

The driver lowered the partition slightly.

“Home, sir?”

Matteo did not answer immediately.

He was watching Clare walk toward her building.

She turned once, caught him looking, and waved.

He immediately looked away.

“Home.”

The partition rose.

Matteo leaned back.

Sunday at three.

He had three days.

Three perfectly manageable days.

There was no reason those three days should feel unusually long.

Unfortunately, they did.

By Sunday afternoon, Clare had reached an important conclusion.

Matteo Romano was terrible at casual.

Spectacularly terrible.

At exactly 2:57 p.m., a black luxury car stopped outside her apartment.

At 2:58, the driver opened the rear door.

At 2:59, Matteo stepped out wearing dark trousers, a pale shirt, and the expression of a man arriving for negotiations with a hostile government.

Clare watched from her window.

She checked the time.

Then checked it again.

She had expected a message.

Maybe a phone call.

Possibly the driver alone.

She had not expected Matteo himself to arrive three minutes early, staring at the building as if punctuality were a moral law.

Clare smiled.

This was going to be fun.

She waited four additional minutes.

Not because she was cruel.

Because Matteo looked like the kind of man who believed time could be disciplined.

At 3:03, she came outside.

Matteo looked at his watch.

Clare saw it.

“Do not.”

He looked at her.

“Do not what?”

“Say it.”

“You are late.”

“Three minutes.”

“Four.”

Clare stopped.

“You counted.”

“No.”

“You absolutely counted.”

Matteo opened the car door.

Clare grinned.

“Adorable.”

His face changed.

That word was apparently unacceptable.

Excellent.

Clare filed that information away for future use.

She climbed into the car.

Matteo followed.

“Where are we going?”

“Lunch.”

“At three.”

“Yes.”

“That is dangerously close to early dinner.”

Matteo ignored her.

Clare smiled and looked out the window.

She wore a soft blue wrap dress, nothing theatrical, nothing chosen to impersonate a girlfriend.

Somehow, Matteo noticed her more.

He had spent an unreasonable amount of time deciding where to take her.

That annoyed him.

Restaurants were restaurants.

Food was food.

Yet every location had seemed wrong.

Too formal.

Too public.

Too loud.

Too obviously romantic.

He booked one beside the river, then cancelled it.

He booked another, then cancelled that.

His assistant eventually asked whether there was a security concern.

Matteo said yes.

Apparently, the security concern was himself.

He finally chose a small Italian restaurant owned by an elderly family friend.

Clare knew none of this.

She simply entered, looked around, and smiled.

No chandeliers.

No gold ceilings.

No orchestra.

No billionaire ordering anyone to adjust the lake.

Just warm brick walls, small tables, the smell of fresh bread, and an elderly man behind the counter who saw Matteo and shouted something in Italian.

Clare turned.

Matteo looked irritated.

The elderly man hurried over and hugged him.

Clare’s eyebrows rose.

Matteo endured the hug with the resigned expression of a man who knew resistance was pointless.

Clare was delighted.

This was information.

Valuable information.

Matteo Romano could be hugged against his will.

Then the restaurant owner turned to Clare, and his expression brightened.

Matteo immediately became suspicious.

Within thirty seconds, Clare had been welcomed, complimented, seated, and given bread.

Within two minutes, the owner asked Matteo why he had hidden such a beautiful woman from everyone.

Clare nearly inhaled a breadcrumb.

Matteo corrected him.

Clare was a friend.

The owner looked at Matteo, then Clare, then Matteo again.

He clearly did not believe him.

Clare decided she liked this restaurant very much.

Lunch became surprisingly easy.

Matteo relaxed.

Clare noticed.

He was different here.

Less guarded.

Less aware of every exit and every stranger in the room.

The staff knew him not as the frightening Matteo Romano, but simply as Matteo.

A waitress scolded him for not visiting enough.

The owner brought him a dish he had not ordered.

A small boy from the kitchen wandered out and asked if he still had the expensive car.

Matteo answered with extraordinary patience.

Clare watched all of it, and something shifted inside her.

Until then, Matteo had mostly been entertaining.

Handsome, certainly.

Dangerous, probably.

Difficult, absolutely.

But entertaining.

Now she saw something else.

People here loved him.

Not because they feared him.

Not because he had money.

Because somewhere beneath the control, Matteo Romano had spent years quietly looking after people without needing applause for it.

That made Clare curious in a way acting never had.

She asked the restaurant owner how long he had known Matteo.

Matteo immediately interrupted.

That only made Clare more interested.

The owner ignored Matteo entirely.

Apparently, Grandma Romano was not the only elderly Italian immune to his authority.

Clare discovered that Matteo had worked in the restaurant as a teenager for three weeks.

He had been terrible.

Matteo objected.

The owner disagreed.

Clare wanted details.

Matteo wanted the building evacuated.

According to the owner, Matteo had once dropped an entire tray of glasses.

Clare stared at him with theatrical reverence.

“The great Matteo Romano, destroyer of glassware.”

He warned her not to start.

Too late.

For the next twenty minutes, Clare referred to him as the Tray Assassin.

Matteo threatened to leave her at the restaurant.

Clare reminded him that he had invited her.

He reminded her this was not a date.

She reminded him that nobody had asked.

The owner overheard and laughed.

By the time dessert arrived, Matteo was smiling.

Not constantly.

Not freely.

But enough.

Clare realized she liked being responsible for it.

That should have worried her.

Instead, she stole part of his dessert.

Matteo stared at her fork.

Clare froze.

They both remembered the first dinner.

Matteo slowly moved his plate closer to himself.

Clare gasped.

“You are learning.”

She reached.

He moved the plate.

She reached farther.

He moved it again.

A couple at the next table glanced over.

Neither noticed.

Clare narrowed her eyes.

“You are a very selfish man.”

“You have your own.”

“I want yours.”

Matteo looked at her.

The words hung between them.

Clare realized how they sounded.

So did Matteo.

For once, Clare Bennett had nothing clever to say.

Matteo’s gaze remained on hers.

A small smile appeared.

He had won.

Clare hated that.

She immediately stole the entire plate.

Matteo laughed.

Loudly.

Several people looked over.

Clare stared at him.

There it was.

Not the tiny reluctant smile.

Not the almost laugh.

A real one.

Deep, warm, uncontrolled.

For a moment, Clare forgot about dessert entirely.

Matteo realized she was staring.

“What?”

Clare shook her head.

“Nothing.”

But it was not nothing.

Something small and dangerous had happened.

Clare had stopped seeing Matteo as an assignment that should have ended three nights ago.

And Matteo, without realizing it, had stopped pretending Sunday was about continuity.

The afternoon should have ended after lunch.

It did not.

Matteo suggested coffee.

Clare agreed.

Coffee became a walk.

The walk became Clare dragging him into a street market because she had spotted handmade jewelry.

Matteo objected to the word dragging.

Clare ignored him.

He followed anyway.

That became the pattern.

Clare wandered.

Matteo followed.

Clare stopped at ridiculous stalls.

Matteo pretended not to be interested.

She tried sunglasses shaped like hearts.

He refused.

She put them on him anyway.

For seven glorious seconds, Matteo Romano stood in public wearing heart-shaped sunglasses.

Clare took a photograph.

He removed them immediately.

“Delete it.”

“Never.”

“Clare.”

“This could fund my retirement.”

He reached for her phone.

She darted away.

Matteo followed.

She laughed.

People turned.

Nobody watching them would have believed this was the same man whose name made certain businessmen nervous.

Eventually, Matteo caught her wrist.

Clare spun around and they were suddenly close.

Very close.

Her laughter faded.

His hand remained around her wrist.

Neither moved.

The market continued around them.

People passed.

Music played somewhere nearby.

But the moment narrowed.

Matteo looked down at her.

Clare’s smile softened.

He could kiss her.

The thought came with alarming clarity.

He wanted to.

Not because anyone was watching.

Not because Vanessa needed convincing.

Not because his grandmother expected anything.

Because Clare stood there looking at him, and he wanted to know what would happen if the performance became real.

His hand loosened.

Clare’s breathing changed.

Then a vendor beside them announced that the sunglasses were fifteen dollars.

The moment shattered.

Clare laughed.

Matteo closed his eyes.

Of course, he bought the sunglasses.

By evening, he drove her home.

This time, neither mentioned security.

Neither pretended there was a reason.

The car stopped outside her building.

Clare did not immediately leave.

Matteo did not immediately say good night.

Silence settled, comfortable but charged.

Clare looked at him.

“Today was fun.”

Matteo nodded.

“It was.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am.”

Clare smiled.

He looked at her.

The emerald dress from the restaurant had been beautiful.

But he preferred this.

Clare relaxed.

Clare teasing him.

Clare stealing dessert.

Clare laughing while he wore ridiculous sunglasses.

Clare being herself.

She reached for the door.

Matteo spoke.

“Clare.”

She turned.

He almost asked when he could see her again.

Almost.

Then his phone rang.

Matteo glanced at the screen.

His expression changed.

The warmth vanished.

The controlled man returned.

He answered, listened, said little, and ended the call.

Clare did not ask.

That surprised him.

Most people would have.

Instead, she studied him.

“You need to go.”

“Yes.”

She opened the door, then paused.

“Matteo.”

He looked at her.

“Do not forget your intimidation score is improving.”

He almost smiled.

“Good night, Clare.”

She stepped out.

Matteo watched until she entered the building.

Then the car moved, and for the next several hours, he returned to the part of his life Clare knew almost nothing about.

Meetings.

Money.

Loyalty.

Problems.

People who smiled while lying.

Men who mistook silence for weakness.

He handled all of it efficiently and coldly.

But sometime after midnight, while a man across from his desk attempted to explain missing money from one of Matteo’s legitimate businesses, Matteo’s phone lit up.

A message from Clare.

The photograph of him in heart-shaped sunglasses.

Underneath it, four words.

Nine out of ten.

Matteo stared at the screen.

Then he smiled.

The man sitting opposite him stopped speaking.

Matteo Romano smiling during a financial investigation was significantly more frightening than Matteo Romano angry.

The man had no idea the reason was a plus-size actress with a dangerous sense of humor.

By Monday morning, Matteo had another problem.

The photograph from the restaurant had escaped.

Not the sunglasses.

Thank God.

Something worse.

Bianca, Matteo’s younger sister, had taken a picture the first night from behind a decorative partition.

Clare leaning toward Matteo.

The napkin against his mouth.

Matteo looking entirely too comfortable.

Vanessa visible in the background.

Bianca sent it to one family group chat.

In the Romano family, one group chat was apparently equal to international broadcasting.

By nine o’clock, Matteo had received eleven messages, two calls, one voice note from an aunt in Sicily, and a photograph from a cousin containing nothing but champagne bottles.

Matteo considered changing his number.

Then his country.

Across town, Clare was having an even more entertaining morning.

Bianca had found her on social media.

The message was short.

I like you already.

Clare stared at it, then laughed.

She had no idea who Bianca was.

Five minutes later, she did.

Matteo’s younger sister.

Clare responded cautiously.

Bianca responded with the photograph.

Clare froze.

Oh.

That photograph.

It looked intimate.

Far more intimate than Clare remembered.

Her hand was on Matteo’s face.

His eyes were partly closed.

Her body leaned toward him.

In the still image, there was no performance.

No arrangement.

No blind date sabotage.

They looked like two people who could not keep their hands off each other.

Clare swallowed.

Then she zoomed in.

That was a mistake.

Matteo did not look irritated.

He looked content.

Clare zoomed out immediately.

She put the phone down.

Then picked it up again.

Then placed it face down.

She had spent years acting.

She understood the difference between staged chemistry and real chemistry.

The photograph made her uncomfortable because she could not tell where one ended and the other began.

Her phone rang.

Matteo.

Of course.

She answered.

His first question was whether Bianca had contacted her.

Clare smiled.

“Perhaps.”

Matteo sighed.

He sounded exhausted.

Clare enjoyed that for several seconds before taking pity on him.

Apparently, the family now believed Clare was Matteo’s girlfriend.

Clare pointed out that this was technically his fault.

Matteo disagreed.

Clare reminded him that he had hired an actress to impersonate his girlfriend.

Matteo reminded her that she had exceeded the assignment.

Clare reminded him that he had invented a Sunday date.

Matteo went silent.

Clare won again.

Then he explained the real problem.

His grandmother was hosting lunch the following weekend.

The entire family would be there.

Grandma Romano had invited Clare.

Clare blinked.

This was getting out of control.

She should say no.

Obviously.

The restaurant had been a job.

Sunday had been something else, but she was not sure what.

Family lunch was different.

Family lunch was personal.

Clare opened her mouth to decline.

Then Matteo added that he had already told everyone she was busy.

Clare stopped.

“You told them what?”

“I was helping.”

“You told your family I am busy without asking me.”

“Yes.”

Clare smiled slowly.

Matteo heard the silence.

He became suspicious.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Clare.”

“I am coming.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You just said -”

“I changed my mind.”

Somewhere across the city, Matteo closed his eyes.

Clare could practically feel it.

“You did this to yourself.”

“I know.”

“I want you to remember that.”

“I already regret calling.”

Clare smiled.

Saturday lunch suddenly sounded wonderful.

It was not wonderful.

It was chaos.

The Romano family estate contained more relatives than Clare had been emotionally prepared for.

Aunts.

Uncles.

Cousins.

Children.

People whose relationship to Matteo required diagrams.

The moment Clare arrived, Grandma Romano hugged her.

Bianca appeared immediately after.

Bianca was twenty-six, beautiful, energetic, and apparently born without the ability to mind her own business.

Clare liked her instantly.

Matteo considered this catastrophic.

Within fifteen minutes, Clare had been absorbed into the family.

One aunt asked how they met.

Matteo attempted to answer.

Clare interrupted.

She said they had met under highly romantic circumstances.

Their eyes had met across a crowded room.

Time had stopped.

Matteo had approached.

He had said something unforgettable.

The entire table listened.

Matteo knew she was lying.

Clare knew he knew.

She smiled at him.

Grandma leaned forward.

“What did he say?”

Clare paused dramatically.

“Then he asked whether I had signed a confidentiality agreement.”

Bianca choked on her drink.

Matteo looked toward the ceiling.

Clare laughed.

The family adored her.

Matteo was doomed.

But beneath the humor, something genuine was happening.

Clare watched Matteo with his family.

He carried his grandmother’s chair without being asked.

He quietly cut food for a small nephew while continuing a conversation.

He listened when his mother spoke.

He pretended to hate Bianca’s teasing, but when she reached across the table for something, he passed it before she asked.

Small things.

Unperformed things.

Clare noticed all of them.

Matteo noticed things too.

Clare helped in the kitchen even though nobody asked.

She remembered names.

She listened to Grandma Romano’s stories with genuine interest.

She laughed with Bianca.

She complimented his mother’s cooking and meant it.

She never tried to impress anyone.

She simply belonged too easily.

That frightened Matteo more than it should have.

The original plan had an expiration date.

Clare was supposed to disappear from his personal life once the blind date problem ended.

Instead, his family was already making room for her.

Quietly, Matteo was doing the same.

After lunch, Clare escaped into the garden.

Not because she disliked the family.

Because Grandma Romano had begun showing her Matteo’s childhood photographs.

There were limits to how much happiness one woman could survive.

She had already seen Matteo at age nine in a sailor costume.

She needed air.

Clare stood beside a fountain, laughing to herself.

Then Matteo appeared.

She looked at him and immediately laughed again.

“No.”

He knew.

“You saw the photographs.”

“The sailor outfit.”

“Clare.”

“The hat.”

“Stop.”

“You were adorable.”

Matteo stepped closer.

“Do not use that word.”

Clare smiled.

“Adorable.”

He moved closer.

She repeated it.

“Adorable.”

Another step.

Clare backed toward the fountain.

Her smile widened.

“Completely.”

Matteo caught her around the waist before she could retreat farther.

Clare stopped.

So did he.

His hand rested against the curve of her waist.

Her hands landed against his chest.

The laughter faded.

There it was again.

That sudden shift.

One second joking.

The next, something else.

Something neither had planned.

Clare looked up.

Matteo’s gaze dropped to her mouth.

This time there was no vendor.

No Vanessa.

No grandmother.

No restaurant audience.

Clare’s heartbeat quickened.

Matteo leaned closer slowly, giving her every chance to move away.

She did not.

His mouth was inches from hers when a voice cut across the garden.

“Matteo.”

They jumped apart.

Bianca stood on the terrace.

Clare closed her eyes.

Matteo’s jaw tightened.

Bianca waved cheerfully.

“Nona wants everyone inside.”

Matteo stared at his sister.

Bianca stared back.

Then her eyes moved between him and Clare.

A slow smile appeared.

She had interrupted something and knew it.

Clare covered her face.

Matteo looked like he was reconsidering the entire concept of siblings.

Bianca disappeared inside, probably to tell everyone.

Matteo looked back at Clare.

Clare started laughing.

He tried not to.

He failed.

The moment became funny again.

But neither forgot how close they had been.

Especially Matteo.

That evening, after Clare left, Grandma Romano found him alone in the library.

She did not ask whether he liked Clare.

That would have been too easy.

Instead, she said Clare was lovely.

Matteo agreed before realizing he had answered.

Grandma smiled.

He immediately became suspicious.

Then she said something that stayed with him.

“She makes you lighter.”

That was all.

No lecture.

No pressure.

Grandma left.

Matteo remained in the library with the word sitting heavily in the quiet.

Lighter.

He did not know whether he liked that description.

Light things could be lost.

Matteo Romano had built his life around never needing anything he could not control.

Clare was becoming something he could not control.

The problem was that he was beginning not to want to.

Two weeks later, Clare was still Matteo’s fake girlfriend.

Nobody had officially extended the arrangement.

Nobody had officially ended it either.

It simply continued.

At first, there were reasons.

A family dinner.

A charity event.

A business reception where Matteo needed a companion.

Then the reasons became increasingly suspicious.

Coffee.

Lunch.

A bookstore Clare wanted to visit.

Dinner because Matteo happened to be nearby.

He was never nearby.

Clare knew this.

Matteo knew she knew.

Neither mentioned it.

Somewhere during those weeks, pretending became the least complicated part.

Clare learned Matteo hated olives.

He learned she stole fries even after insisting she was not hungry.

She discovered he read crime novels.

He denied it.

She found three on his nightstand during a visit to his penthouse.

The evidence was overwhelming.

Matteo discovered Clare sang badly while cooking.

Not casually badly.

Historically badly.

Once, he entered the kitchen while she made pasta and genuinely thought someone had been injured.

Clare threw a towel at him.

He caught it.

Then stayed for dinner.

Their arguments became rituals.

Their teasing became affection.

And affection quietly became something neither wanted to name.

The strange thing was that Clare had expected Matteo’s world to frighten her.

Instead, what frightened her was Matteo himself.

Not his reputation.

Not his power.

The man.

The way he remembered how she took coffee.

The way he moved automatically to the street side of the sidewalk.

The way he looked for her whenever he entered a crowded room.

The way his hand had begun settling against her lower back without either of them thinking about it.

Those things were dangerous.

Clare understood acting.

She could pretend affection.

She could pretend jealousy.

She could pretend romance.

But she could not pretend not to feel something when Matteo looked at her like that.

Matteo, for a man who controlled nearly everything, was losing badly.

The disaster arrived at a charity auction.

Clare attended beside him.

This time, nobody had asked her to pretend anything.

That should have been the first warning.

She wore a dark blue gown.

Matteo wore black.

When Clare descended the staircase into the ballroom, Matteo stopped mid-conversation.

His cousin noticed.

Clare noticed.

Three nearby women noticed.

Matteo apparently did not notice that he had stopped noticing everything else.

Clare reached him.

“Close your mouth.”

Matteo immediately closed it.

She smiled.

He looked annoyed.

Then he said, simply, “You look beautiful.”

Clare blinked.

No sarcasm.

No teasing.

Just the truth.

Her expression softened.

“Thank you.”

Matteo offered his arm.

Clare took it.

For once, neither made a joke.

They entered the ballroom together.

For nearly an hour, everything went perfectly.

Then Adrian Cross appeared.

Adrian was an actor.

Tall.

Charming.

Handsome.

Unfortunately, Clare knew him very well.

They had worked together.

They had briefly dated.

Matteo discovered both facts in approximately forty-five seconds.

He disliked Adrian in thirty.

Clare greeted Adrian warmly.

They hugged.

Matteo watched.

His expression became too still.

Clare introduced them.

Adrian extended his hand.

Matteo shook it with perfect manners.

Polite.

Controlled.

Civilized.

Clare was impressed for twelve seconds.

Then Adrian mentioned that Clare used to steal his hoodies.

Matteo’s eyes changed.

Clare noticed.

Oh, this could be entertaining.

She should have stopped.

She did not.

Adrian told another story.

Clare laughed.

Matteo’s jaw tightened.

Clare became fascinated.

Was Matteo Romano jealous?

Impossible.

Wonderful.

She tested the theory.

A terrible idea.

Naturally, she proceeded.

She touched Adrian’s arm while laughing.

Matteo immediately moved closer.

Clare nearly smiled.

She complimented Adrian’s haircut.

Matteo’s hand settled against her waist.

Confirmed.

Clare was enjoying herself enormously until Matteo leaned toward her.

“You are doing this deliberately.”

Clare looked innocent.

“Doing what?”

His stare answered.

She smiled.

Matteo understood.

The little menace was enjoying his jealousy.

Fine.

Two could play.

Matteo removed his hand from her waist.

Clare’s smile faltered.

Then a beautiful woman approached him.

He greeted her.

Clare’s eyes narrowed.

Matteo noticed.

Interesting.

The woman touched Matteo’s arm.

Clare’s expression changed.

Very interesting.

Matteo smiled politely at the woman.

Clare stepped closer.

His amusement increased.

The woman asked whether Matteo would attend an upcoming event.

Before Matteo could answer, Clare slipped her arm through his.

“He is busy.”

Matteo looked down at her.

Clare looked up.

Neither spoke.

The other woman understood immediately and excused herself.

Matteo waited until she left.

“You are jealous.”

Clare scoffed.

“I am not.”

“You interrupted her.”

“She was boring.”

“You heard seven words.”

“Seven boring words.”

Matteo smiled.

Clare hated that smile.

It was her smile.

The one she used when she knew she had won.

“You are enjoying this immensely.”

Clare stared.

He had stolen her line.

The nerve.

She turned to walk away.

Matteo caught her hand.

Clare looked back.

The humor remained, but something deeper had entered his expression.

He pulled her gently closer.

This was not for anyone else.

Nobody important was watching.

There was no blind date.

No grandmother.

No arrangement to protect.

Just Matteo.

Clare.

And weeks of pretending becoming increasingly ridiculous.

“Clare.”

She stopped breathing normally.

His thumb moved over her hand.

“I do not like watching other men touch you.”

The humor vanished.

There it was.

The truth.

Small.

Uncomfortable.

Real.

Clare could have teased him.

Normally, she would have.

She did not.

Her answer was equally dangerous.

“I did not like her touching you either.”

Matteo stared.

Clare swallowed.

Well.

That was unfortunate.

Now they both knew.

For several seconds, the ballroom disappeared.

Matteo stepped closer.

Clare looked up.

This time when he leaned toward her, nobody interrupted.

No sister.

No vendor.

No grandmother.

His hand touched her cheek.

Clare’s fingers curled lightly against his jacket.

Matteo kissed her softly at first, almost cautiously, as if the man who commanded whole rooms suddenly was not sure of anything.

Clare kissed him back.

That answered the question.

His other arm circled her waist.

The kiss deepened.

Not dramatic.

Not performed.

Not designed for anyone.

Real.

When they separated, Clare stared at him.

Matteo looked equally unsettled.

Then Clare whispered, “Nine.”

His eyebrows drew together.

“What?”

“Intimidation score.”

She smiled.

“You lost a point.”

He laughed against her forehead.

And Clare realized with terrifying certainty that she was falling in love with him.

The suspense arrived later that night not with violence, not with threats, but with a photograph.

Clare returned home after the gala, still thinking about the kiss.

She changed, removed her makeup, and sat on the edge of her bed.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

One image.

The original restaurant photograph.

Clare wiping Matteo’s mouth.

Underneath it was a message.

Ask him why he really chose you.

Clare frowned.

Another message arrived.

Ask him what Vanessa’s father offered him.

The smile disappeared from her face.

Then another photograph came through.

Matteo.

Vanessa’s father.

A private meeting.

Dated two days before Matteo approached her.

Clare’s stomach tightened.

The blind date had not been what Matteo told her.

The ridiculous plan that brought them together suddenly did not seem ridiculous.

Someone had wanted that dinner to happen.

Someone powerful.

And someone was very unhappy that Clare had ruined it.

Clare did not confront Matteo immediately.

That surprised even her.

The old Clare would have marched into his office, placed the phone on his desk, and demanded answers, possibly while eating something from his kitchen.

But this mattered because she loved him.

She had not said it.

She had barely admitted it to herself.

But she knew.

Love had introduced a new emotion into Clare Bennett’s normally excellent decision-making system.

Fear.

Not fear of Matteo.

Fear that she had misunderstood him.

Fear that the weeks they shared, the laughter, the family dinners, the almost kisses, the actual kiss, had grown from a lie bigger than the one she had agreed to tell.

So Clare waited.

Approximately six hours.

She considered this heroic.

The next morning, Matteo arrived at her apartment with coffee.

Clare opened the door.

He smiled.

She did not.

Matteo’s smile disappeared immediately.

He knew her too well now.

“What is wrong?”

Clare stepped aside.

He entered.

She handed him the phone.

Matteo read the messages.

His face changed.

Not guilt.

Something colder.

Recognition.

Clare watched him carefully.

Finally, he told her what he had hidden.

Carlo Ricci, Vanessa’s father, controlled a powerful business network Matteo needed cooperation from.

Carlo wanted a closer alliance between the families.

A marriage between Matteo and Vanessa would have accomplished that beautifully.

Matteo wanted no part of it.

Vanessa, as it turned out, wanted no part of it either.

But neither of them had initially known the other was equally unwilling.

Matteo’s grandmother believed she was arranging an innocent introduction.

Carlo saw opportunity.

Matteo chose Clare because he needed the dinner destroyed publicly enough that Carlo would understand there would be no marriage.

Clare listened.

Then she asked the only question that mattered.

“Why me?”

Matteo went quiet.

She waited.

He could have chosen anyone.

Dozens of actresses.

Models.

Women in his social circle.

Why Clare Bennett?

Matteo looked at her and told the truth.

Because he had seen her perform.

Because she was fearless.

Because a prop wall had collapsed and she had turned the disaster into comedy.

Because while everyone else panicked, Clare made the entire room laugh.

Because for the first time in months, Matteo had laughed too.

That was why he remembered her.

That was why he chose her.

Not because she was expendable.

Not because he thought she would be easy to manipulate.

Because she was the only woman he had seen who could walk into disaster and somehow make it fun.

Clare’s anger weakened in a way that annoyed her.

She wanted to remain furious.

It was difficult when the man was explaining that he had selected her because she made him laugh before they had even met.

Still, he should have told her.

Matteo agreed.

No excuses.

That surprised Clare.

He had not told her because he assumed the arrangement would last one evening.

Then one evening became Sunday.

Sunday became family lunch.

Family lunch became weeks.

Every time he considered telling her, he became more afraid the truth would make her leave.

Clare stared at him.

Matteo Romano was afraid of her leaving.

The irony was almost offensive.

She crossed her arms.

“You are an idiot.”

Matteo nodded.

Clare blinked.

She had not expected agreement.

“You are supposed to defend yourself.”

“I have learned that makes this longer.”

Clare stared.

Then, despite everything, she laughed.

Matteo’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

Clare noticed.

“You were worried?”

“Yes.”

“About my reaction?”

“Yes.”

She considered making him suffer.

Then she decided he already had a little.

Not enough.

But a little.

Clare pointed toward the couch.

“Sit.”

Matteo obeyed.

That was new.

Clare paced.

She explained his crimes.

Lying by omission.

Manipulating the blind date.

Failing to disclose the business arrangement.

Being generally infuriating.

Stealing dessert.

Matteo objected to the final charge.

Clare overruled him.

Then she reached the important part.

The messages.

Someone was trying to create distrust between them.

Why now?

Matteo had been wondering the same thing.

The answer arrived sooner than expected.

Vanessa called.

Clare answered on speaker.

Vanessa told them that her father had discovered Matteo and Clare were genuinely involved.

Carlo was furious.

Not because he cared whom Matteo loved.

Because the proposed alliance had been part of a larger financial arrangement.

Without Matteo, Carlo’s position was weakening.

But Vanessa had another revelation.

She had never sent the photographs.

She had never told anyone Clare was an actress.

Only a small group knew the original arrangement.

That meant someone close to Matteo had leaked it.

The intrigue deepened.

Clare refused to let it swallow the entire morning.

She had learned something from Matteo’s world.

Serious men became dramatically less impressive when forced to explain themselves in kitchens.

So while Matteo investigated, Clare made breakfast.

He attempted to make a phone call.

She placed a plate in front of him.

He ignored it.

She moved it closer.

He continued talking.

Clare took the phone from his hand.

Matteo stared.

The man on the other end was still speaking.

Clare informed him that Matteo would call back after eating.

Then she hung up.

Matteo stared at her.

“You just hung up on my security chief.”

“He will recover.”

She handed him a fork.

“Breakfast.”

Matteo looked at the fork.

Then at Clare.

She smiled.

He ate.

Somewhere in Chicago, a security chief received the most confusing call back of his career.

By evening, the investigation revealed the truth.

The leak had come from Matteo’s cousin Stefano.

Not because Stefano wanted Clare harmed.

Because Carlo Ricci had been paying him for information about Matteo’s business negotiations.

Stefano assumed exposing Clare as an actress would humiliate Matteo publicly, destroy the relationship, and reopen negotiations with Vanessa.

He underestimated two things.

Clare’s sense of humor.

And Vanessa’s complete lack of interest in marrying Matteo.

When confronted, Vanessa did something nobody expected.

She publicly announced she was dating someone else.

A chef.

Her father nearly combusted.

Clare found this delightful.

Matteo found it strategically useful.

Grandma Romano found it romantic.

Within twenty-four hours, Carlo’s grand marriage strategy collapsed beneath the combined weight of two women refusing to cooperate.

Clare told Matteo it was the most feminine thing she had ever witnessed.

Matteo wisely did not comment.

Stefano was removed from Matteo’s businesses.

The leak ended.

The conspiracy collapsed.

No dramatic war.

No unnecessary bloodshed.

Just consequences.

Cold.

Precise.

Final.

And Clare realized something important.

Matteo’s power was not attractive because he could frighten people.

It was attractive because when he had every opportunity to become cruel, he chose control.

That mattered.

A lot.

But there was still one unresolved problem.

Them.

That evening, Matteo took Clare back to the restaurant where everything began.

Same table.

Same lighting.

Same chair.

Clare looked around.

“Should I expect Vanessa?”

“No.”

“Your grandmother?”

“No.”

“Bianca hiding behind furniture?”

Matteo paused.

Clare narrowed her eyes.

“You checked?”

“I had security check.”

Clare burst out laughing.

He pulled out her chair.

She sat.

Matteo sat beside her, not across from her.

Beside her.

Exactly like the first night.

Clare noticed.

“So, what are we pretending tonight?”

Matteo looked at her.

“Nothing.”

Her smile faded.

There it was.

The word she had been waiting for.

Nothing.

No performance.

No arrangement.

No fake girlfriend.

Matteo reached for her hand.

Clare let him.

He told her he wanted this.

Not the arrangement.

Not the act.

Her.

Clare looked down at their hands.

Then back at him.

She could have answered romantically.

She could have delivered the kind of speech actresses spent careers memorizing.

Instead, she said, “You could have saved us several weeks by being emotionally functional.”

Matteo stared.

Clare smiled.

Then he laughed and kissed her.

Three months later, Matteo Romano had changed.

Not completely.

That would have been unrealistic.

He was still intimidating.

Still controlled.

Still capable of silencing rooms by entering them.

But there were signs.

Disturbing signs.

He smiled more.

He occasionally left work before midnight.

He owned heart-shaped sunglasses against his will.

Clare had framed the photograph.

Matteo threatened to destroy it.

Clare made copies.

Seven.

One was with Bianca.

One was with Grandma Romano.

Matteo stopped asking about the others for his own mental health.

Clare’s career changed too.

She landed the lead role in a romantic comedy.

Not the funny friend.

Not the cheerful side character.

The lead.

Matteo attended opening night.

He sat in the front row.

Clare nearly forgot one line when she saw him.

Afterward, he waited backstage with flowers.

Clare stared at the enormous arrangement.

Then at him.

“You bought half a garden.”

“I was advised this was appropriate.”

“By whom?”

“Bianca.”

Clare nodded.

That explained the excess.

Matteo kissed her forehead.

Clare wrapped her arms around him.

For a moment, everything was simple.

Then Grandma Romano appeared backstage with Bianca and Vanessa.

Clare stared.

Matteo stared.

Nobody had invited all three.

Apparently, that was irrelevant.

Grandma hugged Clare.

Bianca took photographs.

Vanessa congratulated her.

Matteo stood there realizing that his original plan had produced consequences that might continue for the rest of his natural life.

Clare saw his expression.

“Regrets?”

Matteo looked at her.

“Several.”

She gasped.

He pulled her closer.

“None about you.”

Clare smiled.

That was annoyingly good.

She allowed it.

Their relationship did not become magically perfect.

It became real.

Which was better.

Clare still irritated him deliberately.

Matteo still pretended not to enjoy it.

They argued about restaurants.

Movies.

Whether Clare needed fourteen decorative pillows.

She did.

Matteo disagreed.

He lost.

They argued about his work schedule.

Clare won that too.

Matteo began suspecting there was a pattern.

He learned that loving Clare meant living with unpredictability.

She changed plans.

She laughed loudly.

She spoke to strangers.

She befriended waiters.

She stole food from his plate despite ordering the exact same meal.

Sometimes she walked into a room wearing something beautiful, looked at him, and Matteo forgot whatever he had been thinking.

Clare learned that loving Matteo meant understanding silence.

He did not always say what he felt immediately.

Sometimes his affection appeared as coffee waiting beside her before rehearsals.

A car outside when it rained.

Dinner kept warm when she worked late.

A hand at her waist in crowded rooms.

A quiet call me when you get there.

Different languages.

Same meaning.

Gradually, they became very good at translating each other.

Six months after the restaurant disaster, Grandma Romano announced another dinner.

Matteo became suspicious immediately.

Clare was thrilled.

The family gathered at the same restaurant.

Vanessa arrived with her chef.

Carlo Ricci did not attend.

Nobody complained.

Bianca arrived with a camera.

Matteo tried to confiscate it.

Clare protected Bianca.

Grandma Romano watched everything with satisfaction.

Halfway through dinner, Clare noticed Matteo behaving strangely.

Too quiet.

Too composed.

She leaned toward him.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

Clare’s eyes narrowed.

That answer was unacceptable.

Matteo reached for his wine.

Clare watched him.

“You are nervous.”

“No.”

“You touched your watch.”

Matteo stopped.

Clare’s eyes widened.

Oh.

This was interesting.

She leaned closer.

“You are nervous.”

“Clare.”

She smiled.

“What is happening?”

Matteo looked around the table.

His family was suspiciously quiet.

Clare slowly turned.

Grandma was smiling.

Bianca looked seconds away from exploding.

Vanessa pretended to study her plate.

Clare looked back at Matteo.

“Matteo Romano.”

He stood.

Clare stopped speaking.

The restaurant seemed to quiet with him.

Matteo reached into his jacket.

Clare’s hand flew to her mouth.

Then she immediately lowered it.

No.

Absolutely not.

She was an actress.

She would maintain dignity.

Matteo lowered himself beside her chair.

Dignity disappeared.

Clare started crying.

Then laughing because she was crying.

Then crying because she was laughing.

Matteo looked up at her, and for perhaps the first time in his adult life, he looked genuinely uncertain.

That made Clare love him even more.

He opened the small box.

The ring caught the warm restaurant light.

Clare stared.

Matteo had prepared a speech.

A good one.

He had practiced it twice.

He managed approximately eight words before Clare interrupted.

“Yes.”

Matteo stopped.

The entire table laughed.

He stared at her.

“I have not asked.”

“I know where this is going.”

“Clare.”

“Yes.”

“Can I finish?”

“No.”

Bianca was openly crying.

Grandma Romano looked victorious.

Matteo shook his head.

Of course.

Even his proposal had somehow been taken over by Clare.

He should have expected this.

Clare held out her hand.

Matteo slipped the ring onto her finger.

She stared at it.

Then at him.

Her smile softened.

This time, no performance, no joke, no audience mattered.

She touched his face the same way she had that first night.

Matteo remembered.

So did Clare.

The napkin.

The blind date.

The ridiculous arrangement.

The woman in the red dress walking through the restaurant.

The plan designed to make another woman leave.

Clare laughed softly.

“You know what is funny?”

Matteo remained beside her.

“I am afraid to ask.”

“You chose me because you wanted to scare away a woman you did not want.”

Matteo smiled.

Clare leaned closer.

“And somehow you ended up stuck with me.”

His arm moved around her waist.

“Stuck.”

She nodded solemnly.

“For life.”

Matteo considered that.

Then he smiled.

“Good.”

And he kissed her.

The restaurant erupted.

Bianca took approximately six thousand photographs.

Grandma cried.

Vanessa applauded.

Somebody opened champagne.

Clare Bennett, the plus-size actress who had entered Matteo Romano’s life because she was supposed to pretend he wanted her, became the woman he could not imagine wanting anyone else beside him.

A year earlier, Matteo would have called the entire situation impossible.

He did not believe in chaotic romance.

He did not believe in instant connection.

He certainly did not believe one badly planned blind date could change a man’s whole life.

Then Clare sat beside him in an emerald dress, picked up a napkin, and wiped absolutely nothing from his mouth.

She had been acting.

At least that was how it started.

But somewhere between stolen desserts, heart-shaped sunglasses, ruined family lunches, interrupted kisses, jealous arguments, and the woman who could make him laugh when nobody else dared, Matteo stopped wanting the performance to end.

Clare had been chosen to ruin one evening.

Instead, she ruined his carefully organized bachelorhood.

She ruined his reputation for never smiling.

She ruined his ability to eat dessert without guarding his plate.

According to Matteo, those were crimes he intended to make her answer for over the next sixty years.

Clare thought that sounded reasonable.

On one condition.

She got half his dessert.

Matteo refused.

Clare married him anyway.

And Grandma Romano, who had watched the entire disaster unfold from the beginning, never allowed Matteo to forget the most embarrassing part.

He had spent years avoiding every woman she tried to introduce him to.

Then he chose Clare Bennett himself.

The one woman who was supposed to be fake.

The one woman selected to make romance disappear.

The one woman who walked into his controlled life, laughed directly at his intimidating stare, rated it seven and a quarter, stole his chocolate cake, and somehow became the only woman Matteo Romano wanted sitting beside him when there was nobody left to convince.