Melanie Moreland

She was fucking perfection.

I couldn’t stand her.

She was everything I despised in a woman. Small and delicate, with dark hair and blue eyes, she dressed in simple suits and skirts—neat, tidy, and completely dowdy. Her hair was always twisted into a knot, she wore no jewelry, and from what I observed, no makeup.

“I’m eating dinner. Would you join me?”

“I’m fine,” I lied. I was starving.

He grimaced. “I doubt that.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re too skinny. You need to eat more.”

“As your assistant at your new opportunity?”

“No.” He paused, as if thinking about his words, then spoke. “As my fiancée.”