“Don’t,” he says, low, dangerously quiet, “tell me what makes my fiancée happy. You think I don’t realize those two are thick as thieves? It’s the entire fucking reason I wanted you dating Bea, to get her out of our hair.”

I blink, stunned. “What about ‘you’re lonely and miserable, and it’s time to find someone who makes you happy’? Or was that just a lie so I’d go along with your plan?”

He starts toward the door, bringing himself closer to me, but not too close. Jean-Claude’s never liked that when we’re close, he has to crane his neck to look up at me. He shrugs. “Your potential enjoyment of her was a plus, but not my primary motivation. My goal was to get Bea out of the picture, because you know what kind of shit Juliet was telling me when I met her, when I knew how much I wanted her? Let’s keep it casual. I need to go slow. My sister’s been in a tough space, and I’m not sure how she’ll take me having a serious partnership, not yet.” He makes a face of disgust. “I’d be damned if some oddball sister who couldn’t get over being dumped was going to come between me and what’s mine—”

“That’s enough,” I snap.

Our eyes lock, and Jean-Claude arches his brows coolly. “Oh, is it?”

Suddenly, my tolerance for living with someone because our families are entwined, because he splits my rent and doesn’t ask much of me, because the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t, and I’m experienced in living with moody, sharp-tongued men—my father made sure of that—evaporates.

“You won’t insult Bea like that again,” I tell him coldly. “Are we understood?”

“But of course.” With a smooth turn of his heel, he throws open the door of our apartment and slams it shut.

“Shit.” I scrub my face, groaning. Part of me wants to run out and tell him to get his ass in that limousine waiting outside. The other part—the part that wins out—has given up on him.

Unearthing my phone, I text Bea, On my way. Can’t wait to see you.

Her response lights up my screen just a few seconds later. Great! Got on my fanciest pair of sweatpants & I’m ready to go.

I roll my eyes, smiling as I stroll out the door.

—

I’ve watched three rom-com movies, which is three more than most cynical, unromantic souls like me can say for themselves. I know about the dramatic reveal moment, when the love interest dresses up and makes a grand, elegant entrance to the hushed awe of everyone around them; when the other love interest realizes in that heart-stopping moment, this is the one for them. So I should have been prepared.

I was not.