She let out a long-suffering sigh. “Honestly, the speed in which they accepted our fallacy as a reality surprised me as well.”

“I bet.” I snorted and flicked on the brewer. “Just chalk it up to the magic of my winning personality.”

“More like your winning record,” she muttered.

“Nice volley, sweetheart.” I grabbed a cup off the shelf. “And a hard punch too. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“There’s a lot in me that you don’t know about… wait… I don’t know if that made sense. Never mind. The point is that you don’t know me.”

I smirked at her rambling. She was too cute.

Focus, Rhys. I poured myself a cup of coffee and took a much-needed sip. “So, where’s this gig tonight? Some fancy hotel?”

“No. It’s on Fairchild’s boat.”

“I’m not wearing boating shoes, Parker. I’m saying that right now.”

“His boat is a two-hundred-foot yacht, Morgan. No boating shoes required.”

Right. I should have known. Suffocating heat invaded my chest, and I set down my cup with a clink. Who was I kidding? I was a racehorse being pulled out and put on display so the guests could get a good look at the merchandise. It was my job here, and forgetting that was stupid.

Parker nervously filled the silence with more rambling. “No, I think a nice pair of trousers and a button-down shirt would work. If you’d like, I’d be happy to provide you with—”

“I told you I had proper clothes.” I rolled my tense shoulders and glanced at my closet. The thought of putting them on made my skin tighten. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I won’t embarrass you.”

“You are determined to be in a foul mood over this, aren’t you?”

“Let’s just say the only woman allowed to pick out my clothes was my mother, and that stopped when I was seven.”

“Fine. Moving on, we need to get our stories straight about how we met. I was going to discuss this with you on Saturday, but …”

She trailed off with a strangled sound. And I found myself smiling again.

“I distracted you, didn’t I?”

She didn’t say a thing. Because we both knew it was true.

“How did we meet?” she asked. “I can’t quite figure out what to say that will be believable.”

“Because the idea of us makes absolutely no sense?” I offered lightly. I mean, I could have been insulted, but she was right—we didn’t make sense.

“Yes.” She sighed. “I’m not very good at acting.”

She sounded so forlorn, I was almost sorry for her.