The first course, a fennel soup and plenty of bread, is the one I use for sobering up. I skip the paired wine and focus on controlling the drippy sensation in my brain. Noah continues his small talk with the couple seated next to him, and I nod and smile as much as I’m able while shoving carbs into my mouth. By the second course, a spinach salad with sweet apples and crispy bacon, I’m much more myself, though admittedly still drunk. Just before the third course is set to arrive, Tom stands at the head of the table and taps on his wine glass. The room falls quiet, all attention set on the robust cowboy.
“I want to thank each of you for coming out tonight, and express gratitude for the support you’ve all lended over the past year as Scented Acres has continued to thrive. I also want to take this time to publicly acknowledge Noah Graves and his partner Charlotte Wilde, and the relationship we are building with them at Flourish. It takes a lot to prove an old man like myself wrong, but the integrity they’ve shown in coming out here to prove their devotion for their company has warmed mine and Cheryl’s hearts. We couldn’t imagine two better people to join the Scented Acres family.”
Noah’s hand finds mine under the table as a warm round of applause breaks out and my stomach sinks. All this time I’ve been assuming the act we’ve been playing only holds the potential to hurt us—but sitting here listening to Tom spoutoff about family values and integrity illustrates how our actions could have very real consequences.
What happens when Tom mentions Noah and I at the next meeting with Flourish executives? Or when he sends a Christmas card to Noah and Charlotte and it arrives at the Portland office? Surely Noah isn’t naive enough to think he’s the only person at work who will have to interact with them. I’m not even planning to stay at Flourish, but it wouldn’t be hard for someone to try and pin any future success on this dalliance. Do I really want to risk my independence and the way people view my business dealings for a playful, sexy secret?
Noah’s hand squeezing mine under the table brings me back to the moment, his warm smile working hard to placate the worry he must see on my face. He lifts his wine glass as Tom extends a toast I didn’t hear, and the rest of the room echoes with “here, here.”
I freeze, staring numbly at the glass above my plate, wondering how I let myself get this carried away. It’s all fun and closet blow jobs until we remember there is a very real world outside of us and people counting on our sealing this deal. Never mind the way this will inevitably implode once we are back in Portland or the way this will taint my future reputation as an entrepreneur. I am a fool for thinking we could innocently play pretend.
My head throbs and my chest aches under the fading drunken cloud. I can’t do this. My career aside, the last twenty four hours with Noah have shown me all too clearly how easy it is to let him placate me into a sense of false security. I know better than anyone what it’s like when that so-called support is ripped out from under you and you’re left to wonder what the hell happened. My cavalier behavior despite this prickly knowledge pulls waves of guilt. What have I beendoing?
The next course is presented and the table falls back into friendly conversation, a wall of noise rising up around me.
“Hey,” Noah says, leaning in and keeping his voice low. Just for the two of us. “Are you okay?”
I shake out of my daze, and sit up, working to force a smile while my chest caves in under the mounting panic. No. I am certainly not okay, but I’ll be damned to hell and back before I let that show here.
“Excuse me,” I say, pushing back from the table and stumbling towards the exit.
I have to get out of here. I need a second to breathe and remember who I am. I don’t dothis. I don’t tease the potential for more. I’ve never needed it before and I certainly don’t need it now.
Finally outside, leaned against a large potted plant, my chest heaves under deep breaths that don’t fill my lungs. The evening air is cool against the heat rising in my sternum, but it doesn’t release the tightening bonds. My eyes sting with unshed tears and I curl my fingers into the planter to keep from screaming.
“Lottie.”
Noah’s voice filters from the doorway and I turn away from looking at him, choosing instead to step further into the parking lot. But he’s faster than I am in these damn heels, and before I can get away his hand is on my shoulder as he rounds to face me.
I hiccup against another gasp and try to turn again, but he holds firm, his other hand reaching to cradle my face. Eyes burning, I look up and push everything I have into not breaking further.
“What’s happening? Tell me what’s wrong.”
His stormy eyes are pools of concern and I bite the inside of my cheek before answering.
“I’m sorry. I just needed a minute.”
“Don’t you dare apologize. Are you sick?”
I shake my head, my throat too tight and my chest still constricting under invisible pressure. He steps closer now, wrapping one arm around my torso, the other keeping my head pressed to his chest.
“Shhhhh,” he soothes, his hand running up and down my arm.
Though he means it to be comforting, it’s like claws against my skin and I wrestle back, breaking out of his hold.
“No. Stop.”
Leaning down to press my palms to my knees I focus on getting fresh air past the knot in my throat. I will not cry here. Not like this.Breathe.
“Lottie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”
“I know,” I snap, the curl of guilt growing tighter. “I just need a minute.”
He steps back and I curse the way I cut him off. But I can’t stand here and listen to him apologize. He didn’t do anything wrong. This is me. I let myself slip past the physical boundaries of our relationship and dance with feelings. I let myself play pretend.
“I’m fine.”
“Take your time. I’m going to go ask for the hostess to call a car and let the Barkers know we need to leave. We’ll get you back and?—”
