August 10, 2002
Dear Maddie,
Fun fact: The flower lily of the valley has a biblical meaning. It sprang from Eve’s eyes when she was exiled from the Garden of Eden. It is considered to be one of the most gorgeous and elusive flowers in nature, a true favorite among royal brides!
It is also deadly poisonous.
Not all beautiful things are good for you. I’m sorry you and Ryan broke up. For what it’s worth, he was never the one. You deserve the world. Never settle for less.
Love (and a little relieved),
Mom. x
I’d been planning my wedding day ever since I was five.
My dad loved to tell the story of how the day before first grade, I’d been seen running after Jacob Kelly along our cul-de-sac, clutching a bunch of backyard flowers, roots and mud intact, yelling at him to come back and wed me. I got my way in the end, after much bribing. Jacob looked appalled, with both himself and me, as my friends, Layla and Tara, dutifully performed the ceremony. He refused to kiss his bride—which was more than fine by me—and chose to spend our honeymoon hurling pine cones at squirrels running across my backyard fence and complaining there was no more of my mom’s famous cherry pie.
I didn’t stop at marrying Jacob Kelly. By the time I was eleven, I’d been wed to Taylor Kirschner, Milo Lopez, Aston Giudice, Josh Payne, and Luis Hough. All of them still lived in the same town I’d grown up in in Pennsylvania and still sent me Christmas cards taunting me for being blissfully single.
It wasn’t about the romance. My interest in boys was saved for morbid curiosity as to what made them dirty, rude, and prone to fart jokes. It was the wedding part I absolutely loved. The butterflies in your stomach, the festiveness, the guests, the cake, the flowers. And above all—the dress.
Fake-marrying boys gave me a reason to wear the white puffy dress my cousin Coraline had gifted me when she got married. I was her flower girl. I squeezed into that thing for five consecutive years, until it was clear the dress couldn’t fit a preteen, even one as comically short as me.
I had been obsessed with wedding dresses ever since. Rabid, more like. I’d begged my parents to take me to weddings. Even went as far as sneaking into strangers’ ceremonies at the local church just so I could admire the dresses. To make my obsession worse, my mother was a florist and would oftentimes allow me to tag along when she delivered wedding flowers to plush, beautiful venues.
Becoming a wedding dress designer seemed like a calling, not a career choice. You were your most beautiful, flawless self on your wedding day. In fact, it was the only day in your life where anything you chose to wear, no matter how costly, extravagant, or lavish, was fair game. People often asked me if it felt stifling to limit myself to designing one type of outfit. Honestly, I didn’t know why any designer would choose to make regular, normal clothes. Designing wedding dresses was the professional equivalent of eating dessert every day for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It was like getting my Christmas presents all at once.
Maybe that was why I’d always been the last to leave work. To turn off the lights and kiss my latest sketch goodbye. Not this Friday, though.
This time, I actually had plans.
“I’m off. Happy weekend, everyone!” I slipped into my hot-pink pumps, turning off the light illuminating my drafting table at Croquis.
My corner of the studio was my little haven. Designed to cater to my needs. My drafting table had silver stationery trays, which I filled with pencils, funny-shaped erasers, Sharpies, brushes, and charcoal. I made it a point to put a vase with fresh flowers by my desk every week. It was like having Mom around, making sure she watched over me.
I gave the flowers in my vase—a medley of lavender and white blooms—a little pat, watering them ahead of the weekend. “Be good.” I wiggled my finger at them. “Miss Magda will take care of you while I’m gone. Don’t give me that look,” I warned. “I’ll be back Monday.”
Whoever said flowers didn’t have faces obviously hadn’t seen them wilt. Usually, I’d take my flowers home with me and put them on my windowsill to people watch and get some sunrays next to Daisy, but this weekend, I was going to the Hamptons to accompany Satan, and Daisy had a sleepover at Layla’s.
“Talking to your plants again. Cool. Totally sane.” I heard a mutter from across the studio. It was Nina, my colleague. Nina was my age yet an intern. She was supermodel perfect. Willowy as a swan, with an upturned nose and the skin complexion of a Bratz doll. The only negative thing I had to say about her was she severely disliked me for no apparent reason other than my ability to breathe. Literally, she’d dubbed me “Oxygen Hogger.”
“Move along now.” She waved her hand, eyes still glued to her screen. “If your plants pee, I will change their diaper. Just as long as you get out of my sight.”
Taking the higher road, I turned away, making my way to the elevators. I bumped right into Sven. He planted a hand on his waist, leaning forward and tapping my nose. My boss slash sort-of friend was in his early forties and wore black head to toe. His hair was so shockingly blond it flirted with white, his eyes so light you could almost see through them. He always wore a touch of gloss and dangled his hips when he walked, à la Sam Smith. As department head at Croquis, a wedding-gown company that was in partnership with Black & Co. to sell their lines exclusively at their stores, he called the shots and attended meetings with the executive board. Sven had taken me under his wing when I’d been fresh out of art school and given me an internship that had swelled into a full-time position. Four years later, I couldn’t imagine working for anyone else.
“Where to?” He cocked his head.
I looped my courier bag over my shoulder, making my way to the elevators. “Home. Where else?”
“Lorde help me, thank God you design better than you lie.” He meant the singer, not his Almighty. Sven did the sign of the cross, following my footsteps, his Swedish accent raising the intonation on final syllables. His foreign accent made a subtle cameo only when he was excited or drunk. “You never leave on time. What’s going on?”
My eyes flared. Had Chase opened his mouth? Sven knew Chase, and they ended up at the same meetings frequently. I wouldn’t put it past him. I wouldn’t put anything past him, bar starting a third world war. Chase would be freaked out by the commitment. A war could last months—even years. He didn’t have the stamina to see it through.
I stopped by the elevator bank, punching the button and popping two pieces of gum into my mouth. “Nothing’s going on. Why would you ask that?”
Sven cocked his head sideways, like if he stared me down long enough, the secret would spill itself out of my mouth. “Are you okay?”
I let out a high-pitched laugh. Sven and I were close but still professional. I’d like to think that if he weren’t my boss, we’d actually probably be best friends. But we both understood that for now there were boundaries and certain things we could and couldn’t talk about. “Never been better.”
Someone get me out of here.
The elevator dinged. Sven slid in front of it, blocking my way inside. “Is this about . . . him?”
My jaw nearly dropped to the floor.
“‘Him’ can burn in hell a thousand times, and I wouldn’t spit on him to put the fire out,” I hissed. “I can’t believe you brought him up.”
If I had a penny for every time Sven had caught me crying about Chase in the kitchenette, my station, the restroom, or anywhere else in the office, I wouldn’t have to work here. Or at all, for that matter. I didn’t even know why. In the six months we’d dated, I’d only met Chase’s family a handful of times, and not even his brousin (brother-cousin) and his wife, whom they were close with. He hadn’t met my family—only Layla and obviously Sven. Things hadn’t been serious by any stretch of the imagination.
“Harsh words. What did the poor guy do? You’ve only been dating for three weeks.” He tapped his lips, scrunching his eyebrows. “What’s his name again? Henry? Eric? I remember something all-American and wholesome.”
Ethan. Of course he meant Ethan. My heart slowed, almost to a complete stop. Crisis averted. The doors to the elevator closed, and I frowned at Sven, pushing the button to call it once again. It was already on its way back down. Darn it.
“Patience is a virtue,” I pointed out.
“Or a definite sign he is playing for the other team.” Sven adjusted the collar of my blue patterned blouse. “Firsthand experience, sister. I had a girlfriend throughout high school, Vera. Her virtue remained intact until she left for college in the States, where it was probably shredded by a pack of frat boys to make up for lost time.”
“Poor Vera.” I licked my thumb and rubbed a coffee stain off the corner of his lips.
“Poor me.” Sven swatted my hand away. “I was so busy trying to be the man I thought my parents wanted I completely missed out on my ho years. Don’t let that happen to you, Maddie. You go and be that ho we all want to be.”
“You’re projecting.” I winced.
“And you are missing out,” he countered, poking me in the breastbone. “It’s been months since you broke up with Chase. It’s time to move on. Really move on.”
“I did. I mean, I have. I am.” I pressed the button to the elevator three times in succession. Click click click.
“Oh, look, an incoming text message from Layla.” Sven held his phone up to my face. Oh, I forgot to mention that since Sven and I couldn’t be best friends, my best friend had actually become his best friend. It really messed with my work/personal-life balance, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me at times. Like now. “Let me read that for you: ‘Tell your employee to take this weekend to enjoy herself. Force her to have fun. Make mistakes. Sleep with the man of her dreams.’”
“I’m not . . . ,” I started, but he shook his head, turning around, waving his hand as he sauntered back into the studio and bent over Nina’s shoulder, glancing at what she was working on. The doors to the elevator opened. I walked in, shaking my head.
“Over my dead body.”
Half an hour before Chase was supposed to pick me up, I knocked on Layla’s door. She opened, pushing a stray lock of emerald-green hair behind her ear, holding a kicking, screaming four-year-old in meltdown mode. Layla was a curvy, the-only-dimples-I-have-are-on-my-ass-and-that’s-the-way-I-like-it girl, with the most enviable wardrobe, consisting of boho-chic dresses, floaty skirts, and over-the-shoulder knit sweaters. She didn’t seem to mind his advances at tearing her eardrum. The pocket money must be worth it.
“If it isn’t Martyr Maddie,” she chirped lovingly, giving me a one-arm squeeze. I hadn’t changed from my work clothes. A blue blouse with printed cherries, paired with a gray pencil skirt and pink pumps. “Shouldn’t you be with your ex-boyfriend right about now?”
“Just came by to drop off my keys.”
Okay. That was a blatant lie. Layla had a spare in case of an emergency. I just needed to talk to her before I left. “Thanks for watching over Daisy. I usually walk her three times a day, for twenty minutes minimum. She likes Abingdon Square Park. Specifically chasing after a squirrel named Frank and catcalling other dogs. Just make sure she doesn’t run into the street. There’s a measuring cup in her food bag—one scoop in the morning, one in the evening. Her vitamins are by the utensils drawer, yellow pack. Don’t worry about changing her water too much. She drinks from the toilet bowl anyway. Oh, and don’t leave anything on the counter. She will find a way to open and eat it.”
“Sounds like me after a night out.” Layla grinned. “Frank, huh? Are things serious between them?”
“Unfortunately for him.” I winced. I recognized Frank by the bald spot between his eyes. Daisy loved that squirrel, so of course, I fed him every time we went to the park.
“She also might pee in your shoes in protest when she realizes I am gone,” I added.
“Jesus, she is worse than a kid. That see-you-next-Thursday ex-boyfriend of yours really made sure you’d never forget him with this parting gift.”
I shrugged. “Better than C-H-L-A-M-Y-D-I-A.”
“I know how to spell.” The kid poked his tongue out, making both of us look at him incredulously.
“Thanks, I owe you one,” I said.
“Don’t mention it.”
The kid in her hand was now tugging at her hair, yelling his mother’s name.
“Ground control to Martyr Maddie, are you there? I asked you if Sven read you my text,” Layla said, ignoring the ball of commotion in her arms. I hated that nickname. I also hated that I kept earning it by never turning people down when they asked for favors. Exhibit A: attending my own fake engagement party in the Hamptons this weekend.
“Yup.” I plastered a cheerful smile on. “Sorry, I drifted. He did. You’re insane.”
“And you look like you’re on death row.”
“I feel like it too.”
“I’m sorry, honey. I know how devastating it is when a gorgeous, well-bred gazillionaire whisks you off for a weekend in the Hamptons after slipping a four-hundred-fifty-K engagement ring on your finger. But you will survive it.”
Let the record show I hadn’t been the one doing the investigation on how much the ring cost. That was Layla, over a bottle of wine (okay, spiked Capri Sun) the minute Chase left my apartment building. I’d summoned her to an urgent meeting, during which she browsed Black & Co. Jewelry’s website and concluded the engagement ring was a limited edition and was no longer for sale.
“You know what it means.” She wiggled her brows then, pouring a shot of vodka into a cup and squeezing the Capri Sun into it. I’d shut her down immediately.
“Yes. That he wants to make sure his family thinks the engagement is legit. That’s all.”
Now, I was still trying to douse her optimism with a good portion of reality.
“Really, I prefer to look at it as being kidnapped by a cheating, lying, arrogant piece of sh—” I eyed the kid, who went completely silent, bug eyed, waiting for me to complete the sentence. I cleared my throat. “Sheep.”
“She said a potty word.” He pointed at me with a chubby finger.
“No, I didn’t. I said ‘sheep,’” I protested. I was arguing with a four-year-old. Ethan would have had a heart attack on impact had he found out.
“Oh.” The kid poked his lower lip out, mulling it over. “I love sheep.”
“Apparently, we don’t love this one, Timothy.” Layla patted his head. She closed the door half an inch. “Can you promise me one thing?”
“Do I have to?” I sulked. I knew she’d want me to be positive and optimistic.
“Try to make the most out of it. Instead of thinking about who you are going to spend the time with, think about how you’re going to spend your time. The one-hundred-fifty-million-dollar property you will be staying in on Billionaires’ Row, eating clambake delicacies, sipping wine that costs more than your rent. Bring your sketchbook. Take a breather from city life. Make this trip your bitch.”
“Potty word!” Timothy perked again.
“I said ‘beach.’ Surely you like building sandcastles.”
“Uh, duh, I do.”
I loved my best friend, but she was a role model to children like I was a can of soup. She didn’t even want to have any (children, not soup. Layla loved soup). Nevertheless, Layla had a point. I was going to attend my fake engagement party with the man of my nightmares, but I was going to do it in style. Chase and I had spent Christmas at his Hamptons estate before we’d broken up. It was the kind of place you only got to see on HGTV or celebrity Instagram stories. Problem was, Layla was a notorious commitment-phobe. Spending time with the man who’d broken her heart would never pose a problem, because her heart would never get broken.
“You know what? You’re right. I’ll do just that. High five, Timothy.” I offered the kid my open palm with a smile. He stared at me vacantly, unmoving.
“Mommy says not to let strangers touch me. I could get kidnapped.”
Not if the kidnapper knows what your lungs are capable of.
“Well, then it’s settled. You’re going to have fun, not overanalyze every moment, and allow yourself the luxury of an oopsie hate flock without getting attached.”
“Hey! You said—” Timothy started.
“Flock. I said ‘flock.’ Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.” Layla slammed the door in my face before I had the chance to moan about my upcoming weekend.
That was when I noticed Layla’s word of the day.
Birthday: the anniversary of the day on which a person was born, typically treated as an occasion for celebration and the giving of gifts.
It was his birthday when Chase had cheated on me.
And just like that, my mood turned sour again.
Chase was five minutes late. Deliberately, no doubt. Punctuality had always been his forte. But if riling me up were an Olympic sport, he’d have an array of gold medals, a book deal, and a steroids scandal by now.
He double-parked in front of my building, blocking traffic with the nonchalance of a psychopath who truly didn’t care what people thought of him. He got out, rounded the car, and wordlessly pried my suitcase from my fingers before throwing it into his trunk. People honked and shook their fists out their windows behind us, yelling their opinion about his poor driving skills while wishing him acute injuries in various creative ways, their heads poking out of their cars. He slipped back into his vehicle and buckled up, in no hurry. I was still glued to the sizzling curb, trying to come to terms with the idea of spending time with him. He rolled the passenger window down, giving me that barely patient smile he awarded his employees that made you feel so stupid you needed to wear a helmet indoors.
“Stage fright, love?” He said the word love like it was profanity.
I had to remind myself his mind games didn’t matter. Ronan Black mattered. His sister and his mother mattered. Their hearts. My conscience.
“Sure,” I bit out sarcastically. “Wouldn’t want my fake in-laws to think their fake future daughter-in-law is not as charming as they initially thought.”
“Ever heard about the term fake it till you make it?”
“I’m sure the women in your life are familiar with it,” I quipped.
He smirked wryly. “Our relationship might’ve been fake, but the orgasms were anything but.”
The cars behind him honked loudly, not pausing for a breather. The sound began to echo in my head. I wanted Chase to know I was not going to be some yes-woman who’d cater to every whim and idea he had, even if I’d agreed to help him.
“Get in, Mad. Unless you want me to get in a fight with half the street.”
“Tempting,” I bit out. I mean, it was.
He smirked, completely oblivious to the chaos teeming behind him as more and more cars began to honk. It wasn’t like me to keep people waiting, but making my point trumped being polite. He needed to know I was serious.
“If you get nervous, just picture everybody naked.”
“All right, then,” I said, my eyes traveling as south as they could down his body at this angle. “Are you cold, Mr. Black?”
He laughed, enjoying our exchange. “I don’t remember you being so feisty.”
“I don’t remember you being this intolerable,” I shot back. I realized it was true. When we’d dated, he’d seemed way more polite and closed off, and I was . . . well, less myself.
I hopped into his car, opting to stare out the window throughout the drive, watching Manhattan’s high-rises sliding by in slow motion. Like flicking through a magazine quickly, the scenery changed frequently, glossy through the filter of the squeaky-clean window. All the hysteria I’d somehow managed to shove under piles of to-do lists and work throughout the week simmered back up as we left the city. How was I supposed to mask the sheer loathing I had for this man? I couldn’t kiss him or hold his hand. Jesus, I’d just realized I was supposed to share a room with him. No way, José.
It had been hard enough to explain the situation to Ethan a couple of days after agreeing to this fiasco, when I’d met him after Chase dropped in for a visit. I relayed the entire situation to him, including Chase’s cheating, his dying father, and my own experience of losing a parent. Then I told him about the nickname Sven and Layla had slapped on me. Martyr Maddie.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I asked Ethan for the millionth time over xiao long bao and Chinese beers. I was treading carefully. I understood how crazy it all sounded. Ethan and I had never discussed exclusivity. We dated casually but hadn’t slept together, let alone put a label on what we were. We had shared a few sloppy kisses, nothing more. I wanted him to put his foot down and tell me he wasn’t comfortable with the idea. It’d have been the perfect excuse. But Ethan, who saw the good in everything—serial killers included, I suspected—simply nodded, grabbing another dumpling with a chopstick and tossing it into his mouth.
“Sure? I am more than sure. I’m honored to be dating someone like you. The only thing this weekend in the Hamptons is going to prove is that you”—he pointed at me with his chopsticks—“are an amazing person. Chase Black was a fool to cheat on you, and you’re still helping him out. You’re fantastic.”
I watched him, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Besides, we aren’t really exclusive, are we?” He rubbed the back of his neck, blushing. “We haven’t even . . . you know.”
I did know.
“So”—he shrugged—“it’s not like I’m in any position . . . what I mean to say is that I’m good with it. Really.”
For some reason, his reaction had unsettled me. I wanted him to be at least a little unnerved by the prospect of my spending the weekend with my ex-boyfriend. Which was completely irrational, since I wasn’t possessive toward Ethan at all, and because he was right—he and I weren’t really exclusive.
Back in reality, Chase read my thoughts.
“Does he have a name?” He snapped me out of my reverie, his eyes still glued to the traffic jam we were approaching. It seemed like the entire world was headed to the Hamptons. A bottleneck of trucks, Priuses, and convertibles waiting in a never-ending line of vehicles.
“Don’t start,” I warned.
He tutted. “Touchy. I’d be, too, if my partner was dumb enough to send me off to a weekend in the Hamptons with someone who’d previously fucked me to three consecutive orgasms in less than twenty minutes.”
“Can you be any cockier?” I whipped my head around to scowl at him.
“Yes, but then I’d have to wear a condom.”
There had been some relief to breaking up with Chase. Six months into our relationship, I was still flustered and constantly berating myself for saying the wrong thing in his presence. My voice was always high pitched when he was around, and I filtered my words, my thoughts, to try to be the woman I thought the Chase Black would date. He felt so far out of my league that I concentrated on not making errors more than I did on getting to know him and having fun. I’d always felt less. Less attractive, less stylish, less smart. Hating him now was so much easier than trying to worm my way into his bitter heart, like I had when we were dating.
“So. His name.” Chase returned to the subject at hand.
“How is that your business?” I began to scratch at my nail polish to keep my hands from strangling him.
“It is my business who my fiancée is fucking,” he said matter-of-factly. I paused midscratch, pulling at the delicate flesh around one nail and tugging at the dead skin until it ripped.
“Fake fiancée,” I corrected.
“And a real pain in the ass.”
“Gosh, Chase, how are you single? You’re just about the most charming man I’ve ever met.”
“I choose to be single,” he fired back, smiling patronizingly. “Just like you choose to date anyone under the sun, just as long as you’re not alone.”
Ouch. Awkward silence filled the car. The banter was fine, but when we started speaking truths, that was when it got too much. Not that I did date anyone under the sun, but I was pretty sure Chase actually believed what he’d said. I decided to play along. It wasn’t like I had anything to hide. I was proud of Ethan.
“Ethan. Ethan Goodman.”
“Goodman,” Chase repeated, whistling low.
“Nice job, Chase. I didn’t know you had that word in your vocabulary. How did it taste?”
“Like two point three kids, a suffocating mortgage on a Westchester house you hate, and a midlife crisis consisting of mild alcohol abuse at forty.” His eyes were still hard on the road. “What does Ethan Goodman do for a living?”
“Doctor.” I kept it vague, feeling my cheeks heat.
“Hmm. I’m going to rule out plastic surgeon on the grounds that it is too sexy—actually, any kind of surgeon; he doesn’t seem the steady-hand type—and go with dentist.” He paused, frowning at the row of vehicles ahead of him. “No. That would actually be profitable. I changed my mind. Ethan Goodman is a pediatrician.” He swiveled his head, flashing me a smirk so sinister I physically felt it licking at my skin.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” I narrowed my eyes. “He saves lives.”
“Private practice.” He ignored me, hitting the nail on the head once again. “So technically, he fills out growth charts with handwriting nobody can understand and examines butt rashes. Let me guess—he did a tour somewhere to give back to the community. Gain perspective. South America? Asia? No . . .” He paused, grinning so widely I was tempted to punch him square in the face. “Africa. He is committed to the cliché.”
“Yeah, the cliché of saving lives and helping others.” Seriously, my face felt so hot I was one blush away from exploding. “He’s a good man.”
“Clearly. It’s in his fucking name. And you’re here because Ethan the good man has some commitment issues of his own.”
“Excuse me?”
“Why else would he be okay with this arrangement? He wants to see how you and I play out.”
“We are not a thing. Ethan and I met at SeriousSinglesOnly.com,” I couldn’t help but blurt out, and I immediately regretted the decision. It wasn’t something I wanted to advertise, but Chase needed to know he was wrong about at least one thing. I mean, obviously, his very existence was wrong on multiple levels, but I was talking specifically about Ethan.
“You could have met him at WillMarryAnyoneForABlowJob.com, and I would still think the same. He is no more committed to you than you are to me, and you two are forcing this shit upon each other despite you having zero chemistry just because you don’t want to be alone. Called it now. Thank me later.”
“You’re one to talk,” I muttered, returning to the task of scratching off my nail polish. It was a nasty habit I was trying to kick, but the need to taint his precious Tesla with dry flakes of Moroccan Nights pink was overwhelming.
“I can do more than talking,” he mumbled.
“As much as you shutting up is tempting, no thanks.”
I swiveled my head back to my window, to the safety of watching other people in their cars, trying to lower my heartbeat to a normal rate. I thought we were done talking. I hoped so, anyway. And then . . .
“Hope you’re okay with fifty years of lights-off missionary, eating rolled oats for breakfast every day, and naming your pets after trashy reality-TV celebrities your kids idolize.” He kept baiting me. I wanted to crawl out of my skin and jump out the window, but I didn’t trust Chase not to do unholy things with the body I’d shed and leave behind.
I put my hand to my heart, feigning shock. “The horror of living a good, quiet life with an honest man, pets, and kids will haunt me forever. I beg you, stop.”
He sent me a sidelong glance. “You wear sarcasm well.”
I waited for the strike to come. Chase didn’t disappoint.
“Unfortunately, it is the only thing you wear that doesn’t look ridiculous.”
“Can you just shut up? It’s bad enough you forced me into coming here. Don’t offer me unsolicited commentary about my style or analyze my current relationship. I just want someone nice and normal.”
It was hard to admit, even to myself, that now I was even more nervous about sex with Ethan. If he wasn’t going to rip my clothes off and take me against a spiked wall in a BDSM dungeon, I was going to be disappointed, solely based on the fact Chase had been right about pretty much everything else about him.
No, I chided myself. Ethan doesn’t have doubts about dating me. We’d been hanging out for three whole weeks and still hadn’t slept together. He was obviously in it for the long run.
I could see Chase shaking his head in my periphery, chuckling to himself. “You don’t want what normal people want, Mad.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
More silence. My soul was banging its head against the futuristic-looking dashboard. Why did I have a soft spot for people I didn’t know? Why had I thought this was a good idea? But I never really could refuse small acts of kindness. That was why I didn’t narc on Nina from work for bullying me. I knew intern jobs in fashion were hard to come by, so I sucked it up while Nina verbally abused me daily. I kept a chocolate bar in my purse in case others fainted on the subway and needed sugar to spike their blood pressure. It was an Iris Goldbloom trait I’d inherited.
“Friendly reminder—you have to pretend that you like me,” Chase snapped after a while, tap-tap-tapping his steering wheel with his perfect long fingers. I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose.
“I know.”
“Convincingly.”
“I could be convincing.”
“Debatable. There may be touching involved. Light patting in nonstrategic areas and so forth.” His eyes were still on the road.
“Are you out of your mind?” I hissed.
“Presently, yes, hence why you’re here. As a result, we’re going to have to play the loving couple.”
“We will. Now can you please, please be quiet? I’m doing you a favor. A huge one. Don’t make me regret it,” I finally barked, feeling dangerously close to falling apart. My face was hot, my eyes watery, and it felt like someone had punched my nose from the inside.
To my surprise, he zipped it.
We zoomed past Long Island, the Tesla’s quiet buzz the only background noise accompanying the drive. I closed my eyes, feeling my throat bob with a swallow.
I longed for a truce. For Chase to take a step back and let me gather my ragged self-esteem and frayed thoughts. For a sign what I was doing was the right thing and not destructive to both my heart and his family.
Most of all, I longed to run away. Somewhere far, where he couldn’t grab my heart with his poisonous claws again and devour it.
See, I had a secret I didn’t share with anyone. Not even Layla.
Sometimes, at night, I could feel Chase’s claws sliding across my heart, sharp as blades. I still wasn’t over him. Not truly. I didn’t even think it was love—there was nothing about Chase’s personality I particularly enjoyed.
I was obsessed.
Consumed.
Completely enamored.
Problem was, Missionary Ethan, I knew, would be kinder on my heart than Reverse Cowgirl Chase.
