“I’ve seen plenty of rom-coms. You know, looking into her eyes, all that shit.”
That makes us both laugh.
He moves a little closer to me, and my pulse immediately starts to pound at the thought of him pressing his lips to mine.
“Chess,” he murmurs, “you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, and I’m the luckiest man on earth to be marrying you.”
“Nobody’s listening,” I berate, my cheeks flaming. “You can just get on with it.”
“I’m warming up.”
“My face is warm enough for the two of us.”
He observes my flushed face with interest. “Why are you blushing?”
“Because you’re going to kiss me!”
“It’s just me,” he points out.
I don’t know what to say to that. He thinks of me as a friend. We’re just two friends, having a bit of fun. There’s nothing romantic in this for him. Nothing sexual. He’s not turned on by it. He’s not attracted to me.
It’s as if he’s thrown a bucket of cold water over me, and I stiffen. It’s a game. He said that we should put on a show for the photographer. All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players, right, Shakespeare? This is all about getting him the CEO job at the Foundation, nothing more.
I force a smile onto my face. This is for the benefit of the photographer, and also for anyone else who might be watching; in fact, I think Sabrina is still at her table. It’ll be fun to put on a performance for her.
“Let’s do it,” I say, feeling a surge of rebelliousness as I remember how she sneered at me. I move closer to him and rest my hands on his chest. It’s not just about us pressing our lips together. It’s about convincing the crowd that we’re in love. “Hello, gorgeous,” I say, lifting my face.
He chuckles. “Hello, beautiful.”
“You have amazing eyes,” I say sincerely. They’re the color of amber, with dark brown flecks. I wonder what treasures they hold captive within them?
“So do you.” He studies them with interest. “They’re a really bright green. You’re not wearing lenses?”
“No.”
“They’re stunning.”
“Thank you.”
He slides his arms around me. “You’re so tiny.”
“I’m five four.”
“That’s a foot shorter than me!”
“Do you want me to get a box?”
He laughs. “That won’t be necessary.” He bends, and before I can react, he picks me up as if I weigh little more than a cushion and wraps my legs around his waist the way Ryan Gosling did with Rachel McAdams at the MTV Movie Awards. A cheer rises around us, and everyone turns to look.
I squeal, then laugh, despite the fact that my face is now burning. “Kingi!”
“That’s better,” he murmurs. Our faces are now level, and his lips are only an inch from mine.
I go to turn my head to see who’s watching, but he says, “Don’t look at them. Look at me.”
I focus on his face, my lips curving up. “Well, someone’s feeling bossy.”
“That’s my bedroom voice.”