Page 44 of How to Kidnap a Fake Date
Suite?
‘You’ll be staying together, obviously… Dad had the notion that maybe Roman should sleep in one of the guest rooms, but don’t worry, I nixed that real quick.’ Eliza nudges Maggie with her hip and grins.
Maggie’s smile falters. ‘Eliza?—’
‘Relax,’ Eliza says sweetly. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of sprucing it up a little. But don’t worry, I left your favourite pillow.’
Maggie turns beet red, and Eliza raises a brow at me.
‘Not that you probably need the pillow when you’ve got Roman to play with… right?’
‘Eliza,’ Maggie yelps, shooting me a sorry glance.
It’s a good thing I’ve had a drink.
The suite itself is fucking massive. Why Maggie ditched it for a pokey London flat, I had no idea. High ceilings, a sitting area, and massive windows overlooking the front drive. The bathroom looked far newer and sparklier than the rest of the furnishings.
And in the centre of the room, only one bed.
Oneenormous, four-poster bed. All crisp white sheets and weird drapes.
I stop and look at Maggie. If she goes any redder, I think her head might explode.
‘Thanks, Eliza. It looks… lovely.’
‘I’ll leave you two love birds to it,’ Eliza says from the doorway. ‘See you bright and early for shooting.’
The door shuts with a soft click.
‘Please say it’s laser tag. Or clay pigeons. Not people.’ Our bags are already on one of the couches, and I slump down next to them.
‘Of course it’s clays, we’re not monsters.’ Maggie stands awkwardly with her hands clenched at her sides.
‘So, that’s the family,’ I say, reaching over and grabbing a packet of shortbread from a tray on the coffee table. It’s like a hotel.
‘Other than my brother. But getting him to socialise with the family is more difficult than getting me here. I know they’re a lot.’
‘That’s an understatement.’
Maggie paces while I crunch through the little packet of buttery biscuits. ‘We don’t have to share the bed. I can sleep on the sofa.’
‘Do you trust your sister not to barge in and find you there?’
She makes a miserable noise. ‘I can sleep on the floor, behind the bed, just in case.’
‘You’re not sleeping on the floor.’
‘Why do you care? I thought you’d be thrilled to see me uncomfortable after what I’ve done.’
‘I just don’t want to explain to your psychotic family why your back’s wrecked before the wedding.’
Getting ready for bed is awkward. Teeth brushed in silence in a bathroom the size of a studio flat. Pyjamas changed in the bathroom, avoiding each other. Maggie’s are covered in tiny sausage dogs. Some are wearing hats. Bonkers.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The very far edge.
There’s a vast expanse of bed between us when she gets in.
The room is dead quiet except for the crackle of the fire and the faint sound of the wind. I want to yell at her for bringing me here. To make her apologise and promise to take me home first thing. To find a phone and call the police. I’m not certain that her family claims are true, and that she’s not just using them to make me behave. But if they are true… is there more danger in trying to escape, or in just seeing this out?
