Page 26 of Fall For Me
I do the math. I’m twenty-eight. Liam said three to five years. In three years, I’ll be thirty-one. That’s not ancient. I’ll still have time to rebuild my life, find real love with someone who doesn’t threaten legal action if I break up with them.
But if my parents lose everything because of me? If my dad goes back to suffering even for one day? I will never recover from that. There is no timeline for that guilt to expire.
I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of the oversized hotel robe. The fabric comes away streaked with mascara. I thought I’d washed it all off last night, but apparently, waterproof means “survives several hours of crying, melting uglily, but clinging to your face indefinitely.” I stand up, sniffing loudly, and march into the bathroom.
“Okay.” I lean over the marble sink, giving myself a pep talk.
I was the lead in my high school production ofRomeo and Juliet. Playing the Blushing Bride should be a walk in the park. At least this time, I don’t have to stab myself at the end.
I splash cold water on my face, scrubbing away the last of my wedding makeup.
“I can do this,” I tell my reflection.
The woman in the mirror looks skeptical.
Rightly so. Liam acted like a total jerk last night, sure. He’s arrogant, reckless, entitled. But… he didn’t abandon me in the street like I thought. He sent the car for me. Lila loves him. And Lila is cool. She’s smart, she’s funny, and she didn’t hesitate to show up at two in the morning to sew him back together. Ifa woman like her considers him her ride-or-die, he can’t be a complete sociopath. He has to be at least tolerable.
“My husband,” I practice saying and gag a little. Okay, I’ll have to work on the delivery.
I walk back into the main room just as the door buzzes. Then, as if whoever was on the other side had second thoughts about barging in, a knock sounds. I smooth the front of my robe, tighten the belt, and yell, “Come in!”
Liam walks in. And I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
The hotel boutique must cater to retirees who spend their winters in Florida. He’s wearing a pale-yellow V-neck and white slacks. Liam looks like he’s about to complain about the sand trap on the ninth hole.
He’s carrying four large shopping bags, his expression a cross between grim determination and the make-believe charm of a salesman about to deliver his pitch. Even in the ridiculous outfit, with his dark hair windswept and that sharp jawline, he’s unfairly attractive. It’s annoying. He should look like a dork, but he looks like the cover of a magazine for billionaires on vacation. The kind of handsome that makes a woman forget why she’s mad at someone, a trap I need to avoid.
“I got the clothes,” he says, setting the bags down on a velvet armchair. “Listen, I?—”
“Save it.” I cut him off before he delivers whatever speech he has rehearsed.
His determined enthusiasm drains away, replaced by crude disappointment. His shoulders drop. He looks totally… crestfallen.
But he doesn’t get angry or snap back with a cutting remark. He doesn’t make me feel stupid for pre-empting him.
That’s a good sign that, no matter our differences, it won’t be too unbearable to coexist in this insane arrangement.
“Well, as I said. These are your clothes,” Liam says, his voice carefully neutral. “I’ll have a car waiting for you downstairs whenever you’re ready to leave.”
“No need. I’m staying. I’ve decided to agree to your proposal.”
“For real?” He pierces me with those remarkable eyes.
I nod, too caught up in the intensity of his stare. It’s unnerving to be the center of his undivided attention.
The disappointment on his face melts away, replaced by a slow, spreading grin. Not the cocky smirk he wore yesterday. It’s a full-wattage, eye-crinkling smile that transforms his features from handsome to unbearable. It hits me right in the solar plexus.
“That’s great.” Relief softens his voice. “The timeline has shifted. My mom is flying in this evening. She wants to meet my wife. We’re kicking off the farce big time with dinner at my parents’ tonight.”
Nausea churns in my stomach.
“Tonight?” My voice goes up an octave. “Liam, I look like a swamp witch, and I know zero facts about you other than you drive like a maniac and have daddy issues.”
He assesses me as if he’s evaluating my presentability. “Nah, you’re fine,” he concludes. “And we have about six hours to get our facts straight. How we met. How we fell in love. How we got married. We need a story that?—”
“We’re not actually married,” I interrupt.
“That’s an easy fix.”
