"Your parents," I manage.
"They'll be up by now. They can't hear us downstairs," she says, her hand finding its destination with confident strokes that make my vision blur. "Besides, after last night, I think you need to be reminded of who's The Boss."
29
LIV
The Harvest Table sits in what used to be a nineteenth-century dairy barn, its exposed wooden beams creating a rustic elegance that Instagram influencers would kill for. Tall windows have been cut into the old structure, flooding the space with natural light and offering views of rolling farmland.
Twenty-three of us are crowded around a long harvest table. Emma glows with post-wedding happiness at the head, still wearing that dreamy smile that hasn't left her face since yesterday. David sits beside her, one hand resting on hers, the other gesturing as he talks about their honeymoon plans. It's a happy, relaxed gathering.
And Blair—God, Blair, or rather Sailor, fits into this scene like she was born for it.
She's sitting to my right, dressed in dark jeans and a navy henley that accentuates her trim body. She's been here for twenty minutes and already has my cousin's eight-year-old son teaching her some complicated handshake, Aunt Margaret asking for her opinion on just about everything, and Dad deep in conversation about how property prices are going these days.
I stare at her over my mimosa. How does a personal trainer know about the property market? I flip through everything I know about her—which, I'm realizing, is surprisingly little. She grew up in North Carolina, has a brother with Down syndrome she's close to, lost her father young. But the details are sparse, and most of what I know came from that thin dossier she provided. Meanwhile, she knows everything about me, right down to my irrational fear of butterflies.
"Livvy, you've been awfully quiet this morning," Mom observes from across the table. "You must be exhausted after all that wedding planning yesterday."
"Just enjoying listening to everyone," I say, taking a sip. I'm having trouble concentrating on the conversations because my body is still humming from this morning's activities. And last night. God, we had so much sex, it's ridiculous. I really did make up for two years.
I smile and try to focus on Emma.
"David booked a helicopter tour of the volcanoes," she says, leaning into him.
"That sounds amazing," I say. "You two are going to have the best time."
"What about you two?” Mom asks. “Any travel plans coming up?"
I freeze, my fork with eggs benedict halfway to my mouth. We haven't discussed this part of the story—what happens after the wedding, what our fake relationship looks like going forward. But Blair doesn't miss a beat.
"We're thinking about a long weekend somewhere," she says smoothly. "Maybe the Finger Lakes region. Liv's been working so hard lately; she deserves some time to relax."
The natural way she says it sends a little thrill through me and I remind myself this is pretend. Just because we might hookup in New York or go on a few dates doesn't mean this is more than a bit of fun. And that's all I want, right? Casual?
Still, watching her charm my family, seeing how effortlessly she fits into this world of farm-to-table brunches and multigenerational conversations, I can almost imagine what it would be like if this were real.
"The Finger Lakes are beautiful in the fall," Aunt Carol chimes in. "Very romantic."
Blair brings my hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles that makes several of my female relatives sigh audibly. "I’m sure we’ll have many romantic getaways in our future," she says. “I adore Liv.”
The performance is flawless, but something in her expression suggests it's not entirely an act. It affects me and I know I'm in trouble. Big trouble.
I'm falling for her. It's not just lust, not just physical attraction. I'm falling for her easy laugh, her genuine interest in my family, the way she makes me feel protected and desired and understood all at once.
What if this turned into something more? I'd have to tell my family the truth eventually. That her name isn't really Sailor—though honestly, that might be a relief. That she's not in finance, that she lives in a shared apartment, that she struggles to make rent. Would they care? Would I?
A few weeks ago, the answer would have been yes. Status mattered, financial stability mattered, the ability to match my lifestyle mattered. But now, none of that feels important anymore. I never needed someone to take care of me but I preferred someone who matched me. Blair gives me other things, though. She makes me laugh, challenges me, sees through my armor and likes me anyway.
I excuse myself to use the restroom, weaving between tables of happy Sunday brunchers. The restaurant is busy—apparentlythe word has gotten out about their organic omelets and locally sourced everything.
I'm almost at the back hallway when I see her.
Andy.
She's sitting at a two-top near the window, her profile illuminated by the sun. Her auburn hair is shorter now, cropped just below her ears, and she's wearing jeans and a green sweater. Her favorite color.
Across from her, laughing at something Andy just said, is Rachel.
