Page 6 of Pretend You're Mine
“I’m not asking for you to make a big production about it,” Xander said. “In fact, I’d prefer no one knew about this other than me, you, and my family.”
“My brother already knows,” I admitted. “Thanks to your text.”
“I didn’t know where you’d gone,” Xander said. “There was nothing else to do.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But I can’t do this, I’m sorry.”
And just like that, like a light had been switched off. All understanding evaporated from Xander’s face. “You can’t do this,” he said, in a decidedly different tone.
“I’ve always hated lying,” I said. It was true, for good reason – I was terrible at it. So terrible that when Teren had minor secrets he knew our parents would outright ask me about, he just wouldn’t tell me.
“It just wouldn’t feel right to intentionally deceive people like that,” I continued.
Xander was busy rifling through his jacket and looked as though he’d only half heard me.
When his attention returned to me, it was to shove a stack of bills on the table in front of me. There had to be at least ten thousand dollars sitting right under my nose.
“Feel alright about it now?” he asked.
I glared at him. How dare he!
One look at his expression and I knew, though. The asshole was actually serious.
I stood up. “So, you won’t annul the marriage then, is what you’re saying?”
Xander stood up. “I told you, just for the Christmas holidays – the next few weeks, I just need you to pretend-”
“And I told you,” I said. “I’ve got my own business and life to worry about. My own family. And no amount of money that you plop down in front of me is going to make me change my mind. I’m not sure what kind of woman you are used to dealing with, but I can’t be bought…”
With that, I shoved the stack of bills away, spilling them all over the table. And then I turned on my heel and left.
4
Xander
Time for Plan B.
Slumped on the couch, I glared at our conversation history. Maybe it had been a dick move, trying to pay Naomi off. But I was out of other options.
Besides, it wasn’t that big a deal for her to pretend for a couple of hours for a few weeks. Sometimes, that was how long it took the annulment paperwork to even get through.
If Naomi had been so averse to reaching any sort of mutually beneficial solution, then why had she worn that black dress? The one that looked like a tightly wrapped black bandage around her, that made me want to follow its lines with my hands and slowly unravel.
I checked my phone for what must’ve been at least the fifteenth time that hour. But there was nothing. After four calls and three texts, still not even one bitchy response.
My glare found its way to a silver gilt-framed portrait on the mantel. The oversized one that Mom had foisted upon me last Christmas and demanded I put up in my house (and, had even demanded proof of its being put up). It was the photo crammed with all fifty-something members of my family, extended family, and some family friends that had become as close as family. They were all smiling forcefully, their gazes on me now. As if mocking me.
Like I needed anything to piss me off more. Reaching over without looking, my fingers connected with the cool glass of sherry on the side table. Sipping it, the blades of tension in my forehead lessened with its roll down my throat. Although it didn’t solve the big question mark of the whole thing.
Nestled up on the floor, looking cozy and judgy all at the same time, Walter let out a low growl. His head jerk sent several long fur strands shaking.
“I know it was crazy,” I said. “But I was drunk, okay?”
Talking to my dog was probably crazy too. Though it wasn’t like I made a habit of it or anything. Just when shit got really bad and I needed to voice my thoughts for fear of them taking over my brain.
“Anyway,” I continued, “Now that it’s happened, might as well make the best of it.”
Which was what exactly? Tell my family that I got married but my wife had… social anxiety? A horrible fever? A job that suddenly called her out of the country?
On the off chance they did buy it, they’d then probably just foist some other eligible female at me. If my family didn’t get to meet my new wife, she’d be as good as dead to them, morality be damned.
On the seventy-inch flat-screen screen ahead of me, Sean Connery as James Bond was shooting away, the personification of debonair sophistication and skill. At some point, fifteen minutes back, I’d lost the thread of the movie and hadn’t picked it up since.
