“No.”
With a sigh, he flopped back on his pillow. “Why are you in my bedroom, Mia?”
“We need to talk.”
He groaned and draped an arm over his eyes. “Now?”
“Yeah, now. Is there a problem? Did I interrupt something?” Again, the grin threatened to take over her face.
He lowered his arm and studied her a moment. “No.” The finality in his tone was unmistakable. Game over. All business Michael had returned, sending her grin running for the hills.
She sat on the edge of the bed and his eyes widened fractionally. “So, if we’re going to pull off this charade of being engaged at the wedding, we need to practice a little.”
He didn’t move a muscle. “Practice what, exactly?”
“Practice acting like we know each other. Heck, practice acting like we even like each other would be a good start.”
“I know you well enough to pull this off. And I like you just fine, Mia.”
Just fine. He didn’t like her at all, and she knew it. All week, he’d been leaving little Post-it notes around the house with instructions as to where her things should go. “Dirty clothes in the hamper, please.” “Dishes in the dishwasher, please.” “This bowl is for my personal items, not paintbrushes, please.” Please, please, please.
And he was a complete and total know-it-all, which was maddening. “Okay, then, Michael. In order to make people believe we are really engaged, there are things we would know about each other. For example, what do I sleep in?”
“Warm-up pants and a T-shirt,” he answered with a satisfied smirk.
“When I’m on your sofa, that’s what I wear. What would I wear to bed if we were really dating and we were sleeping together in this bed?” His smirk disappeared completely and she gave herself a mental fist bump. She’d surprised him. Score: 1-0, Mia.
He cleared his throat and sat up. “If we were dating and you were in this bed, it wouldn’t matter what you wore, Mia. You wouldn’t wear it long. You would be naked. Just like I am now.”
Damn. Score one for Michael. Tied at 1-1, and the crowd goes wild. So does Mia. After her heart slowed to a non-fatal pace, she took the conversation to a safer topic. “What do you do for fun, Michael? Surely you do more than work all the time.”
“Are you seriously going to sit on the edge of my bed after discussing being naked and ask me what I do for fun? Either you are playing an incredibly clever game, or are so completely unaware of what’s happening here, it’s tragic.”
This man didn’t like her at all. He’d avoided her like the plague this week. She didn’t think sexual innuendo from him meant a thing at this point. Maybe she’d read it wrong. Or maybe to Michael Anderson, a woman was a woman, no matter who she was or how much he didn’t like her. “I’m not playing a game, Michael.”
After many long seconds of study, he nodded. “I believe you. I think you are completely genuine and I apologize. I’m not used to it. I’m used to games and agendas.”
“If I had an agenda, I’d forget it before I could carry it out.”
“And I believe that as well.”
So, he’d figured it out. She was a total featherhead and he knew it. Her eyes stung with tears she refused to release.
He put his warm palm on her knee. “Hey. It’s not that you’re not smart. You are. And talented. I’ve seen your painting. What you need are some organizational skills.”
“I’m past that.”
His fingers tightened, and a thrill shot up her spine. “No. Organization is easy. What you’ve got is like that tree you painted.”
Her breath caught. “You could tell it was a tree?”
“Of course I could. And you are just like that tree. You have all these intelligent, flexible branches and creative, beautiful leaves, but no organizational roots to keep you upright.”
She stared wordlessly.
“The roots are the easy part. And I’m just the guy to help you with it. Organization is my middle name.”
Tucking some hair behind her ear, she met his eyes. “What is your middle name, really?”
“Why?”
“Because if we were really engaged, I’d know.”
“David.”
Michael David Anderson.
“And yours is?”
She ran her finger along the edge of the bed. “Lysander”
His eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t laugh. Most people laughed.
Shifting a little on the bed, she took a deep breath. “Hermia Lysander Argaropolis. My parents are actors. They met during a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. They named me after their roles.”
“It suits,” he said.
“Why? Because I’m dramatic and comical?”
“No. Because of the character you’re named after. ‘And though she be but little, she is fierce’.”
She rolled her eyes. “The only thing fierce about me is my hunger. What do you say to breakfast? You have absolutely no food in this place. I thought at first you were a vampire or something.”