The Fiancé by Stefanie London

CHAPTER THREE

Ava

COULDTHISDAY get any more humiliating? I bury my head in my hand—my free one, not the one currently trying to preserve my dignity—for a full four seconds, before cracking my fingers open to see if the man has disappeared. Nope, still there.

Ugh, he’s one of them. Painfully handsome, richer than sin and probably has an entitlement level to match. I deal with his type a lot in this job.

“What happened?” The man steps toward me, heavy brows creased. He has dark hair and darker eyes, like glittering chips of black that are somehow intimidating and sexy at the same time. Which is not my usual definition of sexy, mind you.

I like guys who are more like golden retrievers. Fun, good-natured, a bit silly. Loveable. This guy, however, is a Doberman.

Maybe your comparison of men to dogs is why you’re still single.

“It’s pasta sauce. There was an incident.” If I was any more of a mess right now, I’d be a Jackson Pollock painting.

Of course, the “incident” had occurred because I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. Anthony McCreeperson was texting me, trying to set up a date so we could talk about my mother’s “great idea.”

Kill. Me. Now.

If I didn’t need this job so badly, I would go straight home to drown myself in cheap wine and pizza with extra cheese, and never leave my house again. But there are certain things about being an adult that suck balls... One of them is how reliant we are on money. Therefore, I need to stay and put on a happy face while I try to ignore the source of my humiliation texting me all night long.

Don’t you mean the sauce of your humiliation?

Even when I’m falling in a heap, I can find a pun.

“What exactly was the incident?” the gorgeous man asks.

“A too-tight Tupperware lid and a sous chef with greasy hands.”

His lip twitches. “Right.”

“So yes, I’m hiding in a supply cupboard so I can change. Two more seconds and you would have seen more than my bra.”

Great, now he’s probably imagining me naked. Why do you have to open your big mouth all the time, Ava?

For some reason, the thought of my naked body running through his head makes me tingle like a cluster of fizzy champagne bubbles is tracking through my veins. I’m far too aware of the pressure of the clothes on my skin. Of the heat in his gaze.

Now that I look at him a little closer, I think my initial assessment was slightly off. This man isn’t painfully handsome. He’s not even obnoxiously handsome. It’s like he found the damn handsome scale and snapped it over one muscular thigh.

He has the kind of lips made for kissing. Full, wickedly curved like the lines on a fancy sports car. Tanned, olive skin and strong hands that I imagine skimming up the inside of my thighs.

Yeah, obnoxiously handsome doesn’t even start to cover it.

“So that’s me,” I say. My voice has taken on that high-pitched quality that happens whenever I get wound up. And right now, staring at possibly the single hottest man on planet Earth, I am most definitely wound up. “What’s your story?”

He raises an eyebrow. “My story?”

“The reason you’re also hiding in a closet.”

The man straightens. He’s more than a head and a half taller than me and I have to crane my neck to meet his gaze. “I’m not hiding.”

“You hang out in supply closets for fun?”

“I was about to practice my speech. This is the only place I could get some bloody peace and quiet and...” His eyes rake over me, burning a path from my lips to the shirtfront bunched in my fist, down over the unflattering black pants my boss forces us to wear. “And look how that turned out.”

“Not great, huh?”

His lip twitches again, like it can’t quite figure out if it wants to smile or smirk. He ends up somewhere in the middle, which shouldn’t make my stomach twist and flip, but it definitely does.

This is the kind of chemistry I was talking about earlier today. Looking at this man makes me ache. Everywhere. He makes my mind spin and my hands itch and my pulse pound. Looking at Anthony McCreeperson makes me want to run in the opposite direction.

“No, not great,” he replies drily. “Or maybe it’s very great, depending on your definition.”

Uh, boobs. I’m barely keeping the double-Ds in check right now. Honestly, I know some women have always wanted a bigger bust but I can say firsthand that they are a pain, both literally and figuratively.

I motion for him to turn around, so I can change into a clean uniform. The boss keeps spares on hand in case of “incidents” because god forbid the rich people see someone looking messy. Their perfectly coiffed heads might spontaneously combust.

“So, you’re making a speech, huh? Are you introducing the big guy?” I cringe as I peel the soggy shirt from my skin. “Daniel Moretti. He must be having a hell of a night what with trending on Twitter.”

I don’t know anything about the family who’s hosting this event. Of course, I’ve heard of Moretti Enterprises and the Cielo tower... I haven’t been living under a rock. But between relief teaching and catering shifts, applying for every education job in the city of Melbourne and trying not to let my relationship with my mother turn into a dumpster fire, I don’t have the mental energy for internet gossip. However, the other catering staff love to gossip about our clients, and I overheard them chattering about Daniel Moretti’s alleged affair earlier.

The man doesn’t respond. I slip the new shirt over my shoulders before realising that some of the sauce has soaked through to my bra. I grab a tissue from my pocket and try to get as much off as possible.

“I mean, that’s pretty low if he slept with his brother’s wife,” I say. Getting cheated on is awful. Heinous. Seeing how it turned my mother from a bright and vibrant young woman into someone negatively obsessed with security, I have a lot of sympathy for the brother. “I can’t imagine what that conversation would have been like. Brutal.”

That’s when I realise the man still hasn’t responded.

A funny thought settles in the pit of my stomach. No, this can’t be him. Isn’t Daniel Moretti an older dude? This man in the closet with me is no more than midthirties, max.

But the silence stretches on and my stomach knots. Shrugging the paranoia off, I button up the fresh shirt and when I turn, he’s still facing the door. But even from behind I sense the change in him. His shoulders are tensed, pushing up toward his ears...like he’s about to Hulk out of his expensive-looking suit.

Uh-oh.

“I uh... I’m decent now.” I let out a nervous laugh. Dammit, I always give myself away. “You’ve gone all quiet. I’m starting to worry I’ve put my foot in my mouth.”

“I was curious to see what else you were going to say.” He turns and cocks his head. Now his eyes are blisteringly dark. So intense I wonder if it’s possible for him to burn me to ash. “What’s your take? Do you think it’s true?”

He wouldn’t have a reaction like this unless it affected him somehow. So either he’s the guy accused of having the affair, or the brother who’s supposedly been cheated on. Either way, he could cause me a lot of trouble.

Shit.

My heart pounds. I can’t lose this job now, not after everything that’s happened today. If I suffer one more humiliation I might sink into the ground and cease to exist. Besides, I need every penny to make sure I don’t end up back at home with my mother.

I’m not sure our relationship would survive it.

“I don’t think I should comment,” I say, trying to tuck my shirt into my pants. But my hands are clumsy and I can’t seem to drag my eyes away from his beautiful, angry, glittering gaze.

“Please.” He motions for me to go on. “Indulge my curiosities.”

Think, brain, think. How can you get out of this diplomatically?

“Well... I think the media will write whatever sells the most advertising, regardless of truth. And I think the two brothers need to have a serious, honest chat and leave everyone else’s opinions to one side.”

Very good. Well done, brain.

“So, which brother are you?” The question slips out before I have time to consider the consequences. Story of my life.

“Daniel Moretti.” He sticks his hand out. “Falsely accused.”

When his palm slides against mine, sparks skitter pleasantly along my skin. I’m jolted with flashing images of silken sheets and naked bodies and those big, strong hands sliding all over me. The fantasy is sharp and real, and for a brief second it steals my breath.

“Ava Matthews,” I reply, trying to keep my voice from wobbling. “Barely employed teacher by day.”

He raises an eyebrow. “And by night?”

“Catering waitress who can’t keep her mouth shut.”

“At least you said it to my face.” He rakes a hand through his hair and a crease forms above his nose. “Unlike most people here.”

“I’m subtle as a ton of bricks, as my mum used to say.” I drag my gaze away from Daniel’s exquisite features and continue to tuck my fresh shirt into my pants. Unfortunately, I still look rumpled in spite of my efforts. “But I’ll take the compliment.”

“You should.” His expression is smooth and clear, but his eyes are locked on to mine with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m half-naked. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who simply looks. No. His gaze bores into me. Strips me back. Holds me totally and utterly captive.

I honestly don’t remember the last time a man looked at me like that, but it feels phenomenal. Yeah, yeah, I know I shouldn’t really want that, especially while stuck in a supply closet with a guy I don’t know.

But after the day I’ve had, to feel seen is...everything.

“I don’t know you,” I say. “But you seem sincere to me and I believe you didn’t do what they’re saying. I hope your brother listens.”

“Thank you.” Daniel nods. “I appreciate that.”

“I should get back to work now.” I try to ignore the cosmic little tingle of awareness that shoots through my body. Oh boy, I definitely haven’t felt like this in a while.

He’s hot. It’s a natural reaction. But this guy has got more baggage than Southern Cross Station... And so do you, at the moment. Eye on the prize.

“Uh, good luck with your speech,” I add with a nod. Daniel’s dark gaze stokes the fire in my belly as he watches me. I want to stay and bask in that intensity a little longer, let that pleasant feeling roll through my body like warm water.

“You’re a little...” He steps closer, his hands going to the buttons on my shirt. In my haste, I’ve done them up wrong. “Mismatched.”

He pushes one button through its hole, and then another. My breath stutters in my chest—and I’m frozen like an ice sculpture. But inside I’m molten. Wanting. Burning. His hands don’t even touch my skin as he corrects the buttons, but it feels so startlingly erotic he might as well be sliding my underwear down my legs.

There’s something so intimate. So sensual.

But the moment is shattered when the door to the closet is suddenly pushed open and a bright flash goes off in our faces. “What the...?”

“Daniel!” A male voice cuts through my fog.

But there’s another flash, then another. Spots dance in my vision and I blink, trying to see through the lights. The voices come all at once.

“What are you doing with this young woman? Is this another one of your mistresses? Are you still seeing your brother’s wife?”

I’m reeling as Daniel slams the supply closet door shut. He leans back against it and lets out a groan of frustration. Outside, voices shout his name again and again.

Something tells me this humiliating day is far from over.