22

Cara

I last twenty minutes alone in his sitting room before I start snooping.

I try to justify myself as I go through his medicine cabinet. I'm just trying to learn more about the man I'm going to fake-marry—or real-marry, or pretend-real-marry, or whatever this is—so it's not immoral to look at all his stuff.

Razor, shaving cream, Band-Aids, toothbrush, nothing interesting.

I'm not really sure what the hell we're doing, but I'm drifting along like a log on a wave lost in the current, and Eros is the entire ocean.

His closet is better. Enormous and filled with expensive, custom-tailored suits, racks of designer jeans and shoes and shirts, and a hundred ties in black and dark blue. There's a shelf covered in glittering, no-doubt priceless watches, lit with custom bulbs so the whole display glows like a storefront window.

Eros doesn't strike me as the type of man obsessed with the way he looks, but his closet suggests otherwise.

And his comment from earlier flits through my mind: in thi