“Well, how are we going to sell it tonight if you can’t even touch me now, when we’re alone?”
I stare at her for a moment, then look back at the road, trying to ignore how much I’d actually like to touch her under completely different circumstances.
“I thought we were going for subtle?”
“We are. But you have to act like you’re happy about it.”
“So wait…I’m supposed to sell it, but I’m also supposed to make it subtle?”
She throws her hands up in exasperation. “Do I have to spell everything out for you, Marco?”
“Apparently, yes. I’m just surprised you don’t have a sticky note outlining exactly how far this charade is supposed to go.”
Her eyes widen and her lips part slightly. “Brendan Marco, are you making fun of my organizational system?”
“Yes…I mean no! I’m just?—”
“Forget I ever mentioned the list.” She crumples the sticky note in her hand.
“Scarlett, wait. I don’t think you’re wrong to plan this out. My family will expect us to act like a real couple.” I take a breath. “We might even need to discuss whether we’re okay with…other things.”
“Other things?” She frowns. “What other things?”
“You know how my mom is. She’s part Puerto Rican; she kisses everyone she meets. While my dad was the opposite—barely tolerated a stiff side hug. Classic Marco man married to his emotional opposite.”
“You mean emotionally unavailable men marrying women who have no personal boundaries?”
“Exactly. Which is why she’ll expect the same from you.”
Scarlett points to herself. “Me? But I’m not a Marco woman.”
“I’m just saying…”
She let out an annoyed sigh. “Well, maybe a peck on the cheek is permissible in extreme circumstances. But that’s it.”
“You sound like a ninety-year-old nun who’s been living a life of celibacy for too long.”
Her mouth drops. “Look, it’s in both our best interests to make our families believe this is real. The more convinced they are, the less likely they are to ask uncomfortable questions that could expose our complete lack of actual romantic history. But that doesn’t mean I have to kiss you.”
She pulls down the visor mirror to check her reflection, then suddenly gasps.
“What’s wrong?”
Her fingers fly up to her earlobe. “My earring! Where’s my lucky diamond earring?” She tips her head to show me her right ear, which has a teardrop diamond dangling from it. The left ear is completely bare. “I can’t lose it. It’s from my great-grandmother’s wedding set. If I lose this, my dad will have an actual heart attack.”
“Maybe it fell out in the car?”
She immediately starts searching the floor, tossing candy wrappers and sticky notes everywhere. “It’s not here.”
“Check between the seats?”
She contorts herself into an impossible position, searching the gap between her seat and the center console. “Nothing.”
She looks at my lap. “Maybe it fell when I leaned against you and you’re sitting on it?”
“I think I’d notice if I were sitting on jewelry.”
“What are you, the princess and the pea? Just move over a little.” Without warning, she pushes my right leg—the same one operating the gas pedal.