But her hand stays in mine. Even in sleep.
And the three words I haven't said press against the inside of my ribs like they're trying to escape through bone.
The moonlight brightens. Time slips away.
But for now—this moment—her warmth against me, her breathing steady, her fingers threaded through mine—
I love you.
This is enough.
Chapter 18
No Glass Slippers
February 1 | Day 9 Anguilla P M | Departure
Jane
Two suitcases by the door.
His: structured, precise, black leather with monogrammed initials I never noticed before today. The kind of luggage that has its own dust bag.
Mine: navy blue, slightly scuffed along the bottom from being dragged through too many bus terminals and up too many flights of stairs. The zipper pull is a paperclip I fashioned in an airport bathroom nine days ago because the original snapped somewhere over the Atlantic.
They're positioned almost touching. His is upright like it stands at attention with the wheels perfectly aligned. Mine leans slightly to the left because one caster is bent and has a suspicious wheel wobble.
I’ve officially lost my mind. Analyzing luggage proximity like it means something.
What’s next—reading tea leaves by tomorrow?
This is what eight days of a fake relationship does to a person’s critical thinking.
Even if we’d said this feels real.
West hands me a mug. Coffee. Black, because somewhere around Day Three he learned I take it black in the afternoon and with cream in the morning, and he's never once askedme to confirm.
"We need to leave in fifteen minutes," I say.
"I know."
Neither of us moves.
The casita is doing that thing where familiar spaces suddenly look like museum exhibits.Here is where they had breakfast. Here is where she tripped over his running shoes. Here is where he pinned her against the wall last night and—
Nope. Not going there. Not with luggage to carry and a commercial flight to catch and mascara that's already on thin ice.
"We should probably panic," I say.
"That's why I made coffee."
I take a sip. It's perfect. Of course it's perfect. The man makes coffee like he does everything else—with infuriating competence and zero visible effort.
This morning I had breakfast with his parents and Aunt Milly. They sat around a table overlooking the ocean and passed fruit platters and asked me questions about my business like it was a real business and not a one-woman disaster circus operating above a laundromat.
Eleanor Prescott told me she hoped to see me again soon.
Shemeantit.
