The words hit harder than they should have, slipping past the boundaries of our act into something real and painful. I flinched, unprepared for how much it hurt.
"I would never—" I started, then stopped, forcing myself back into character. "This was a mistake. All of it."
His eyes widened, and I realized he'd heard the truth behind the performance. For a heartbeat, raw emotion crossed his face, something that looked almost like panic. Then the mask slipped back into place, smooth and impenetrable.
"Clearly," he said, voice flat. "I'll be at home. Come get your stuff whenever."
He turned and walked away without looking back, leaving me standing alone in the kitchen with a half-empty wine glass and the curious stares of a dozen party guests. I heard the front door close a few seconds later. The sound of a final ending that echoed in my chest.
Just like we'd planned. A perfect performance. The news of our fight traveled through the party in muffled tones and excited whispers.
I made my excuses to Kinley, apologized for the scene, and escaped to the bathroom before anyone could see the tears threatening to spill. I locked the door behind me and stared at my reflection in the mirror: strong, collected, and completely shattered inside. Gripping the edge of the sink, I willed myself not to cry. Not here. Not where someone might hear.
"It's only pretend," I whispered. "None of it was real."
But that was the problem, wasn't it? Some of it had been real. Too real. The way he'd held me, the way he'd looked at me across that dinner table, the story he'd told Kinley—that hadn't been pretend. Or had it?
I couldn't tell anymore where the act ended, and the truth began.
After splashing cold water on my face and reapplying my lip gloss, I walked out of the bathroom with my dignity intact. I said goodbye to Ruby, who shot me a concerned look but didn't press, and headed for the door.
In the entryway, I spotted Garner's jacket, a worn flannel one I'd given him two birthdays ago, tossed over the back of a chair. He must have forgotten it in his hurry to leave. I reached for it automatically, my fingers brushing the soft, familiar fabric.
The corner of a piece of paper peeked out of the pocket. I hesitated before pulling it out, telling myself I was checking to see if it was important before returning the jacket.
The paper unfolded in my hands, revealing a sketch. A drawing of me, asleep, my face peaceful, a small smile curving my lips. The detail was exquisite—the sweep of my eyelashes against my cheek, the tumble of my hair across the pillow. The tenderness in every pencil stroke took my breath away.
It was me from the other night at the resort. The night we'd been together.
I stared at the sketch, my heart in my throat. This wasn't something he would draw of someone he regretted being with. This wasn't casual. This was... love?
Couldn’t be. That was my wishful thinking. I refolded the drawing and slipped it back into the pocket. Then I set the jacket down on the chair, my shoulders slumping in defeat.
It was time to stop pretending. Time to accept that I’d never be anything more than a friend to Garner. And thanks to dragging him into pretending to be married, maybe not even that.
CHAPTER 9
GARNER
I fucked up the line twice before Priest noticed.
"Jesus, McCrae. What's wrong with you today?" He leaned over my shoulder, examining the shaky outline I'd been attempting on Mrs. Hendrickson's wrist. "That's not even close to straight."
"Sorry," I muttered, wiping away the stencil with alcohol. "Let me try again."
Mrs. Hendrickson, a sixty-something grandmother getting her first tattoo of her late husband's initials, offered a patient smile. "Take your time, dear. I'm not in any rush."
But Priest was already shaking his head. "Take five, Garner. Clear your head." He turned to Mrs. Hendrickson with the professional charm that had built his reputation. "Why don't I show you some different font options while my colleague remembers how to hold a tattoo gun?"
I didn't argue. My hands hadn't been steady all morning, and the last thing I needed was to make a permanent mistake on someone’s skin. I walked out the back door into the small alley behind the shop, leaned against the brick wall, and closed my eyes.
It had been five days since the resort. Three since that disaster at Miles and Kinley's. And there had been nothing but silence from Olivia. It was the longest we'd gone without talking since… well, since forever.
I pulled out my phone and stared at our text thread. The last message was from Sunday afternoon. She’d texted she was heading to Miles and Kinley’s around five. No emoji, no exclamation point. None of the usual Olivia warmth. Just cold, practical information.
I'd responded with "See you there.”
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I could text her now. Something casual. Something normal like asking if she’d caught the latest episode of her favorite true-crime podcast. Or maybe something more direct like saying I miss her, I love her, and I fucked everything up.
