Chapter Twelve
I slow-clap with my eyelashes. “What did you just say?”
“I want you to marry me,” he enunciates.
Okay, so this isn’t a trick played on me by my ears, in which my pulse is drumming madly. This god-like male specimen is proposing holy matrimony to moi? Unless… is his English misfiring again? Did he mean “carry me?” He’s used to lifting ballerinas, so—
“Faux marriage, of course,” he adds.
Oh. He did mean to say “marry,” but not in the way I thought.
Skunk. Why did my heart just sink? That’s the stupidest reaction in the history of reactions. Of course, he wouldn’t genuinely propose to me on the first date, and if he would, I should treat that as a psychiatric condition, not get happy about it.
“Is it for immigration purposes?” I ask, burying my illogical disappointment a
