“He changed his mind last-minute.”
“His name isn’t Steve, and there’s a snowflake’s chance in hell that a man like him would date a woman like you. Does he even know the lies you’ve been telling about him? Actually, does he even know you exist? Give it up, Sloane. It’s time to come home and quit behaving like this.”
I’m thirty-five years old.
Thirty-five.
And a boy from my childhood is making me feel like that confused, guilty, shame-filled thirteen-year-old who would’ve been appalled at the existence of glitter bombs all over again. I can’t stop the adrenaline rush warring with the emotions that I thought I’d finally mastered.
I pull myself straight, look Nigel in the eye, and say the meanest thing I can force myself to say at this moment. “That’s rude.”
“Rawk! Kick him in the nads! Rawk!”
I’d love to, Long Beak Silver.
Nigel shifts a look at the bird. “You need scripture.”
“Rawk! You need glitter! Rawk!”
More people turn and stare.
And as I’m glancing around, realizing just how much of an audience we’re gathering thanks to the bird, I see something else.
Steve.
My pretend boyfriend. Fiancé.
The man I’ve been telling my grandmother is the love of my life.
Steveis lingering near the Thorny Rock Historical Museum, which has been a passion project of mine since I decided two years ago that I’m never getting married.
Nigel’s half right, half wrong.
Steveis not actually named Steve. He got that part right. But Steve does, in fact, know I exist. Barely, but he does.
WhatStevedoesn’t know is the part where I told my grandmother that we’re engaged.
And getting married in a week because we just can’t wait to start our lives together.
I give it a fifty-fifty shot that if I can manage to explain it to him, he’d go along with the ruse.
Actually, I give it a ten percent shot he’d agree and a ninety percent chance that he’ll suggest security escortmeout of the wedding.
Because apparently, picking the most reclusive member of a former boy band to be your fake boyfriend means the people you’re lying to can still figure out who he really is.
And not telling said reclusive former boy band member that he’s your pretend boyfriend—yep.
That’s about to bite me in the ass too.
Because Nigel is a freaking hound dog.
He has his teeth in me, and he won’t let go until he gets what he wants.
Unless—
“Rawk! Girl fight! Rawk!”
I look at Nigel, who’s more or less sneering at me with all of his pompous holier-than-thou pomposity.
