sanity into dog food. I’m still deep in thought when another annoying voice cuts in.
“How’s my favorite couple today?” Reese asks.
“Delightful!” Paige says. “How are you?”
“Hyped up on Mountain Dew,” Reese says.
“That’s more information than you’re supposed to give your boss,” I tell her.
“I wish I was partying all fancy-like. I had to babysit my niece last night and she wouldn’t drift off until midnight. That’s almost as fun, but grape Kool-Aid just isn’t the same as wine, y’know?”
I do know, and I also know it’s far too early for this inanity.
I raise the privacy screen between us, hook an arm around Paige, and pull her closer.
We’re touching, skin grazing in so many places. My body ignites. She stares up at me with a raised brow and full lips I can already feel on mine.
Damn.
“How’s this?” I whisper. “Convincing yet?”
I can’t let her know every seething inch of me already believes she’s mine.
She doesn’t answer, but I feel her body pressing closer, this plush heat my flesh craves like a tan beneath a tropical sun.
Who the fuck am I kidding? We don’t have to fake it so seriously right now when it’s just us.
Reese will believe anything I tell her.
Still, why miss the chance to practice?
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” I whisper to her again.
“No, darling.” She smiles and drops her head on my shoulder.
This time, the d-word actually sounds nice rolling off her tongue, and it shouldn’t.
Careful, dumbass. This ends in eighty-nine days. Don’t forget it’s all a show.
We pull up to The Art Institute of Chicago a few minutes later. I get out first and offer a hand to Paige, who takes it.
We’re walking up the stairs when she says, “This is where we met.”
I nod, opening the door for her at the top of the stairs. Why does her voice sound so heavy?
“What are we doing here again?” she asks as we enter the museum.
“Because we’re donors, they include short biographies on Nick and me too, not just Grandma. I have to update my bio to include my fiancée and I thought I’d do it in person. Better chance to give any eager cameras an eyeful on our terms.”
“Oh. Do you think we can walk through the gardens before we leave?” she asks sweetly.
My lips quirk up in a smile I badly want to repress.
“We’ll have to see how much time we have before our next appointment.”
She nods.
We walk to the members-only desk.
“I need to speak to the curator,” I say.
“Of course, Mr. Brandt. I’m going to open the door beside my booth. You can go right through it, and the curator will meet you back there,” the girl behind the counter says.
Paige and I walk behind the door to a set of offices complete with a front desk.
“I didn’t know this room was even here,” Paige says.
“Follow me,” I tell her, sliding my fingers through hers to pull her along.
I’m about to lead her to the front desk to ask for the curator when the door to the back office opens.
“Mr. Brandt, it’s a pleasure. Come on back,” Curator Staci says.
“Thank you, Staci.”
My hand falls to the small of Paige’s back and I lead her into the office. Touching her is getting far too easy.
Staci lingers in the doorway.
“This must be your fiancée.” She holds out her hand. “So nice to meet you!”
“Thank you.” Paige gives it a firm shake.
“Have I seen you here before?” Staci asks, a puzzled look on her face.
“Oh, I come here a lot,” Paige says. “I’ve been a regular ever since college.”
“I thought so.” Staci gives her a once-over and looks at me. “I know you wanted to update your bio, and we’ll take care of that. But this is wonderful timing because I actually received a box of new donations for the Beatrice Nightingale Brandt exhibit today, and I need to know how you want to handle it?” She walks around her desk and motions for us to sit.
The hunter-green satin hugging Paige’s body shows more leg when she sits. God, I’d like to rip it right off her.
Fuck. Concentrate.
Staci sets a cardboard box on her desk and drops into her chair. “You can go through it if you want, but I trust you’re familiar with the material.”
She pushes the box closer.
What material? Who sent this? What even is it?
I take the box and start rummaging through it, unsure what I’ll find. First, I pull out old sketchbooks and start flipping through them. They’re from when Grandma was young. The