The Blonde Identity: A Novel
The Blonde Identity: Chapter 27

Okay, the dress wasn’t that stretchy. But it was more than a little low-cut, so Zoe threw on a wrap as she headed toward the dining room and joined the table by the window, trying not to worry about the empty seat beside her.

“No Mr. Michaelson tonight? Don’t tell me, you wore him out?” Marc asked with a wink.

“Oh, he’ll be . . .”

“There!” It was Tammy who pointed to the man in the tuxedo on the other side of the dance floor.

Zoe had seen Sawyer looking at that tux like it was some kind of straitjacket, but he walked into the room like it had been custom made for him. By angels. His shoulders had never looked so broad, and his jaw had never looked so chiseled, and . . . had he shaved? He must have. But . . .

Her thoughts trailed off as she realized he was looking at her, too. Like she was beautiful and precious and his. He was looking at her like she belonged to him and it did funny things to her insides. She had to remind herself that it was just the cover—that it was all pretend.

But it was easy to forget when he said, “I believe they’re playing our song.”

Blue eyes staring down at her. Hand reaching out for her. Heart somewhere between her throat and her stomach but definitely not where it was supposed to be. Then he was pulling her out of her seat and into his arms and all Zoe could do was stammer, “Th-this is our song?”

“I suppose it is now.” He seemed almost distracted, looking at her like maybe—

“Did I miss a boob or something? Is that how I got this dress on?”

“No,” he said a little too quickly. “It’s just . . . You . . . you’re . . . beautiful.” Wait. Was Sawyer being awkward? Was Mr. I Only Lie on Floors and Never Actually Sleep Guy uncomfortable? He swallowed hard. “You’re beautiful. And I saw this and thought maybe . . . I mean, I’d understand if you don’t want it, but . . .”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a very small box.

A collective “Whooooooooo” went up from their table as Sawyer presented her with what could only be described as something ring-shaped and ring-colored and ringlike. Yup. It was ringish in every way, but in no universe was—

“It’s a ring,” he said. She knew for a fact the man spoke at least three languages, but he seemed at a loss for words. “I saw it at the gift shop. Thought you should have it. You know . . . for our cover,” he added in a whisper.

She nodded. “Yes. For cover purposes.”

But as he slipped the thin silver band onto her finger it didn’t feel fake at all. And that was the part that scared her.

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