Page 21 of Fake Southern Fiancé

Leaving her wasn’t part of the plan, not really. It’s been ages since I’ve felt so drawn to someone, and that realization alone is enough to fuel my frustration.

Why did she have to get under my skin? And why did she have to lie?

The phone is insistent, another call from Grandfather. This time, I grab it with a sigh, resignation setting in. “Yeah?” I snap as I answer.

“You better not screw this up, Beau,” he says, his voice laced with that mix of command and concern that’s all too familiar.

His words hit me like a physical blow, not because they’re unexpected, but it’s all he ever expects from me—failure.

“I won’t,” I reply, though the words sound empty, even to me.

“Atta boy.” He hangs up.

As I finish packing, my actions slow down, becoming more deliberate. I can’t screw this up—there’s too much at stake. But as I zip up the suitcase, I can’t shake the feeling that what I’m really afraid of is never seeing her again. And knowing that even if I do, she’s not mine to have… or hold.

Chapter 6

Lucy

I wake up alone in my hotel room, the faint scent of spicy men’s cologne still lingering in the air. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I’ve overslept. There’s a pang of sadness in my chest as soon as I realize Mr. Penthouse is gone. He probably just went out to get coffee. Or maybe he didn’t. I don’t know. Does it even matter?

It’s kind of crazy though—despite oversleeping, I feel surprisingly rested as I sit up. Sliding out of bed with a yawn, I step over rose petals and yank open the heavy drapes covering the balcony doors.

“Shit! It’s bright.” I shield my eyes until I’m sure I won’t burst into flames.

It’s too bad—the balcony would have been a lovely place to sip my coffee and watch the sunrise over Savannah. Such a beautiful city, with timeless architecture veiled under moss. Maybe next time. I turn and release a heavy sigh.

This trip has been unexpected in every possible way.

My phone beeps incessantly with missed calls and messages from Emma and Briar. I stall, secretly hoping Mr. Penthouse will come back, but he’s probably gone for good.

Hurrying to shower, I forego washing and drying my hair, opting for a messy bun instead. The bathroom mirror is still too foggy to see, so I style my hair on autopilot. When it comes to choosing an outfit, I push aside the gauzy white dress I brought—it feels too bridal, too reminiscent of a dream that’s now shattered. Instead, I slip into a black sheath tank dress and my go-to ballet flats.

A quick glance at the clock confirms I’m going to be late for my meeting with Blissful Bride magazine downstairs. I swipe some gloss on my lips and mascara on my lashes and give myself one last look in the mirror. And I see them. The red blotches peppering my chest and neck.

My hand lifts to touch the beard burn left behind, evidence that my wild night wasn’t a dream.

I don’t have time to do anything about them and I don’t have a scarf.

“It’ll have to do.” Thank goodness it’s just an initial meeting and not a photoshoot. I shake my head, still unable to believe what I did last night.

And I don’t regret. Not for one single second.

I’m juggling my bag to get out the door when my phone rings—it’s Emma.

“Hello?” I huff out, rushing down the hall.

“Why do you sound out of breath?” Emma asks, concern evident in her voice.

“Because I’m running late,” I reply, feeling a pang of guilt for worrying her. “Sorry, I overslept.”

“Seriously? You, Lucy ‘Sunrise’ Landers, overslept?” Emma sounds incredulous.

It makes me think of his nickname for me. Sunny. Fitting, albeit annoying. But still endearing. All Henry ever called me was babe—so generic.

“Lucy? Can you hear me?” She yells into the phone.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m here. Spotty service, I guess. But yes, seriously. I have less than five minutes to get down to the table to meet the reporter,” I explain, feeling the pressure mounting.