My pulse rackets, and I wish my clothes weren’t so far away. I’d give anything to cover myself. To hide the vulnerability I feel now.
She tilts her head, inserting her face into my line of sight. “Who is this great love of your life that you write all your poems about?”
I release a weighted sigh, then let my eyes lock on hers. “I don’t write poetry about some great love.”
She frowns. “Then who…”
“I don’t…write poetry.”
Her frown deepens.
“I don’t write.”
I catch the moment realization dawns, draining her face of color.
“I act.”
Edwina is frozen, not even stirred by her breaths. Meanwhile, my pounding heart has me trembling from headto toe. I’m so fixated on Edwina’s every move, so afraid of her reaction, that I don’t miss the narrowing of her eyes, the tightening of her jaw.
“You didn’t write the poetry book.”
I give a slow shake of my head. “Cassie did.”
“Your sister wrote it. And you…took credit for it?”
“It’s not like that,” I rush to say. “Cassie submitted her poetry book under my name without telling me. When she was offered a contract, one with a favorable enough advance to pay off most of our debts, she begged me to accept it and publish it as William Haywood.”
She narrows her eyes. “You say that like it’s not your real name.” A long pause. “Is it?”
“Not all fae have surnames, and I’m one of those fae. Haywood is Cassie’s surname. Lydia’s too. I’m just…Will.”
“Then who the hell is June? What is this story you told Jolene?”
“That’s all it is. Just a story. It’s part of my act to support the poetry book. William the Poet is a role I play, and he comes with a backstory. I admit I’ve used that to my advantage, mostly to keep interested lovers at bay. That’s why I never told you this fabricated tale. Because I didn’t want to keepyouat bay.”
Edwina stares at me for a long moment. The longer she holds my gaze, the more obvious her anger becomes. She rises from the couch and gathers her discarded clothing on her way to the billiards table. There she replaces her spectacles, then dons her skirt and blouse, not bothering with her undergarments. I follow her, pulling my trousers over my legs as I close the distance between us.
“You lied to me,” she says as she secures the buttons of her blouse with trembling fingers.
I stop before her and frame her shoulders in my hands. “It’s not like that.”
She leaves her blouse only half buttoned as she glares at me, fingers curled into fists. “You lied to me, and you lie to your fans. What else have you lied to me about? Was everything you’ve said to me an act? Was this…was what we just did together part of some game?”
I clench my jaw. “That’s a stretch to assume I’ve lied aboutanythingelse. I’ve rarely acted when it’s just the two of us.”
“Rarely?”
“I can only lie when I’m fully immersed in a role, Edwina, and I’m not acting now. Which is why I can only sayrarely. Because, yes, I have acted around you in the past, particularly when we first met. But as I’ve gotten to know you, to care for you, I’ve been nothing but the real me.”
“How am I supposed to trust that? You could have told me the truth at any time but you didn’t.”
“Would you have judged me for it? Like you’re judging me now when you still don’t fully understand the situation?”
She shrugs her shoulders from my grip. “Don’t you dare blame me for judging you. Of course I am! We’re competing for a contract you don’t deserve. The poetry book isn’t yours. You made me feel bad for you, claiming you were acting in your sister’s best interests. That you were putting her through college. Fulfilling her dreams.”
“I am.”
“No, if you were doing anything for her sake, you would have supported her work.”
