"Nothing, just—" I clear my throat. "You look absolutely beautiful right now."
Her eyes widen slightly, and a deeper flush spreads across her cheeks. For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air between us suddenly charged.
"I, um—I forgot my clothes," she points, breaking the spell as she moves toward her suitcase.
I force myself to look away, standing up too quickly. "I should shower too. Don't want to meet everyone smelling like an airplane."
She nods, not looking at me, clutching the towel more tightly around herself. "Right. Good idea."
I grab my toiletry bag and a change of clothes, brushing past her on my way to the bathroom. The scent of her shampoo is much stronger up close, mixing with something that's just essentially her. It takes every ounce of willpower not to stop, not to trace the water droplets on her shoulder with my fingertips and lick them away.
Instead, I close the bathroom door firmly behind me and lean against it, exhaling slowly.
This fake relationship might be the death of me.
The shower is as impressive as it looks—multiple jets, a rainfall showerhead, and enough room to do jumping jacks if I wanted to. I let the hot water pound against my shoulders, trying to clear my head.
What am I doing here? Playing boyfriend to a woman who clearly still has complicated feelings about me. Agreeing to meet everyone while pretending to be madly in love with her. Sharing a bed with her for a week straight.
It's insane. And yet...
The look on her face when I gave up my first class seat for her sister. The way she laughed during our drive. How she instinctively reached for my hand when her mother started asking about our first date. It all felt so natural, so right.
That's what scares me most, how easy it is to fall into this role with her. How much I'm already dreading the moment we have to drop the act.
I finish my shower, dry off, and put on jeans and a soft maroon Henley. Running a hand through my damp hair, I steel myself before opening the door.
Charlie's seated at a small vanity in the corner, her fingers working deftly with a makeup brush. The emerald green sweater she has on hugs her curves, the rich color igniting the copper highlights in her auburn waves and casting a warm glow against her creamy skin. Her slim black pants stretch down to bare feet still curled against the plush carpet as she leans closer to the mirror, dabbing just enough color to enhance rather than cover.
"Bathroom's all yours," I say, tossing my towel over a rack to dry.
She meets my eyes in the mirror. "Thanks. I'm almost ready." She puts down her mascara wand and turns to face me. "Listen, about Ethan—"
"Charlie." I cross the room and crouch down in front of her chair, taking her hands in mine. "I've got this. I've got you. Remember? Best fake boyfriend ever."
A smile tugs at her lips. "Right."
"Besides," I add, squeezing her hands gently, "I'm actually looking forward to meeting the idiot who was stupid enough to let you go."
Her smile falters for just a second, and I realize my mistake—I'm also that idiot, in a way. But before I can backtrack, she squeezes my hands back.
"Well, in that case," she says, standing up and pulling me with her, "let's go give him a show he'll never forget."
Charlie's fingers whisper against mine as we descend the stairs. I catch them between my own, weaving them together. Her eyes dart up to mine, widening for an instant, but she stays connected to me.
"Showtime," I murmur, my grip tightening ever so slightly around her hand.
We emerge into the sprawling great room where flames dance in the massive stone fireplace. Beyond the wall of glass, mountains pierce the darkening sky, nature's masterpiece on display. Copper pots dangle overhead in the kitchen, catching amber glints from the fire while marble countertops shimmer under the crisp lighting.
Everyone's gathered there, freshly showered and changed. Emily's traded her travel clothes for a chunky cream sweater and leggings, her dark hair twisted into a low messy bun. Margaret looks elegant in a cashmere turtleneck and tailored pants, silver jewelry catching the light as she moves. Richard's dressed in what I'd call "mountain casual"—a button-down flannel and jeans.
"There you two are!" Margaret calls, spotting us. "Perfect timing. Dinner just arrived from Matsuhisa."
The kitchen island is covered with elegant black containers, the delicious scent of high-end Japanese food filling the air.
"Need any help?" Charlie asks, releasing my hand to join her mom and sister.
Emily immediately loops an arm through Charlie's, pulling her toward the kitchen. "Yes, mom ordered way too much food, per usual."
