I should say no. I should tell him I’m fine, that I can manage the thirty yards to my front door on my own. But something in his voice, some note of longing that I might be imagining, makes me nod.
We walk to my building in silence, our footsteps echoing off the empty street. At my front door, I turn to face him, keys in hand.
“Thank you for the ride. And for tonight. The party was beautiful.”
“You’re welcome.”
We stand there for a moment, neither of us moving. The porch light casts shadows across his face, and I find myself memorizing the details—the way his hair falls across his forehead, the line of his jaw, the way he’s looking at me like I’m something precious.
“Freya,” he says softly, and then he’s stepping closer.
My heart hammers against my ribs as he reaches up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. This is it. This is finally happening. All those years of wondering, of carefully buried feelings and moments that could have been something more.
He leans down, and I tilt my face up toward his, my eyes fluttering closed in anticipation.
But instead of kissing me, he stops. I feel his breath against my lips for one perfect, terrible moment, and then he’s pulling back, dropping his hand, stepping away.
“I should go,” he says, his voice rough. “Good night, Freya.”
“Good night,” I whisper, but he’s already walking away.
I watch him get back in his car and drive off before I fumble with my keys and let myself into the building. My hands are shaking so badly that it takes three tries to unlock my apartment door.
Once I’m inside, I lean back against the door and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, my dress pooled around me like some kind of tragic fairy tale.
He almost kissed me. For one incredible moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. At that moment, every carefully constructed wall I’ve built around my feelings crumbled to dust.
But then he pulled away. Because he doesn’t want me. Not really. Not the way I want him.
I’m such an idiot. How did I let myself believe, even for a second, that this could be real? How did I convince myself that maybe, possibly, Ben might have real feelings for me?
He was just caught up in the moment. The romantic setting, the late hour, the intensity of the evening—it probably felt natural to almost kiss his fake fiancée. But then he remembered our agreement. No catching feelings. Strictly business.
God, I’m pathetic. I’m sitting on my kitchen floor in a cocktail dress, crying over a man who’s made it crystal clear that he doesn’t see me as anything more than a friend doing him a favor.
The worst part is that I can’t fake this anymore. I can’t stand next to him at the altar in five days and promise to love him forever when I already do love him, completely and hopelessly, and he doesn’t love me back.
What am I going to do? How am I supposed to marry him on Saturday, knowing that every word of my vows will be true for me and meaningless for him? How am I supposed to go through with this charade when it’s destroying me from the inside out?
I pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find Bella’s number. Maybe I should call her. Maybe I should confess everything and ask for help. But what would I even say? That I’ve been lying to her for weeks? That I’m fake-marrying her fake brother-in-law and it’s killing me because I’m actually in love with him?
No. I can’t do that to her. I can’t drag her into this mess.
I set the phone aside and rest my head against the door. Five more days. I just have to get through five more days, and then we’ll be married and I can start the slow process of learning to live with loving someone who will never love me back.
CHAPTER 19
BEN
I’m on my fiftieth push-up when I lose count, my arms burning as I push against the polished hardwood floor of my office. Sweat drips onto the expensive wood, and I can’t bring myself to care.
I haven’t been able to focus on anything this morning. Not the quarterly reports sitting unopened on my desk, not the contract revisions that need my approval, not the three voicemails from potential investors. Every time I try to concentrate on work, my mind drifts back to last night’s almost-kiss outside Freya’s apartment.
So I’ve resorted to an impromptu workout, hoping that physical exhaustion might quiet the mental chaos.
Fifty-one. Fifty-two.
The way she looked up at me on her doorstep, her lips slightly parted, her eyes fluttering closed in anticipation. The way every instinct I had screamed at me to close the distance between us, to finally do what I’ve been wanting to do for months—years, if I’m being honest with myself.
