I rest my cheek against his sternum, breathing in the scent of him. Something clean and sharp, like ozone before a storm,layered over warm skin and the faint chemical smell of whatever he used to get the grass stains out of his suit.
"You fixed the cake," I say quietly, the words muffled against his chest.
"The structural integrity was compromised," he responds, his voice a low rumble that reverberates through me. "Multiple load-bearing sections had failed. The cascading collapse was inevitable without immediate intervention."
I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "You used a spatula and sheer force of will. And possibly intimidated frosting into submission."
"The tools available were adequate for the task," he says with absolute seriousness, as if we're discussing military logistics rather than a dessert-based crisis. "Structural reinforcement required precise application of pressure and strategic redistribution of mass."
I tilt my head back to look up at him, having to crane my neck at an almost uncomfortable angle to meet his eyes. Even in heels, the height difference is ridiculous. From this vantage point, I can see the underside of his jaw, the thick column of his throat, the way his gold-capped tusks catch the soft glow of the string lights overhead. "You didn't have to do that," I tell him, my voice softer now, something vulnerable creeping into it. "Fix the cake, I mean. It wasn't part of the contract."
His expression softens in the way I'm learning to read, the minute shift around his eyes, the slight relaxation of the hard line of his mouth. "Your sister was distressed. You were distressed. I provided a solution."
"You're a good fake fiancé."
"I am an excellent fake fiancé." He's quiet for a moment. Then, quieter: "If the position were real, I would be even better."
The words hit like a punch to the solar plexus. I stop swaying. Stop breathing. Just stare at him while my brain tries to process what he just said.
"Kruk—"
"Colletta."
Monica's voice cuts through the moment like a knife. I jerk back, or try to, but Kruk's hand on my waist keeps me anchored in place. Monica appears beside us, still in her dress, makeup slightly smudged from happy tears.
She looks between us with an expression I can't quite read. Amusement? Concern? Relief?
"Can I borrow my sister for a second?"
Kruk's jaw tightens. His hand flexes on my waist, possessive and reluctant, before he releases me with obvious unwillingness.
"I will be over there." He gestures to his wall position. "Watching."
"I bet you will," Monica says, but she's smiling.
I let her pull me to the dance floor, away from the music and crowd. We end up near the dessert table, surrounded by tiny cakes and chocolate fountains and sugar flowers that probably cost more than my rent.
Monica crosses her arms. Studies me with the particular intensity of an older sister who knows all my tells and has zero patience for bullshit.
"So." Monica's voice is deceptively casual, the tone she always uses right before dropping a bomb. "The neurosurgeon."
My heart stutters. "Monica?—"
"I know he's fake, Colletta."
The world tilts sideways. My stomach doesn't just drop, it plummets straight through the floor, through the foundation, all the way to the earth's molten core. Blood rushes in my ears. I open my mouth, close it, open it again like a fish gasping on dry land.
"I can explain—" The words tumble out in a panicked rush, my hands already gesturing wildly, preparing for the elaborate defense I've been mentally rehearsing for weeks.
"I don't care."
I freeze mid-gesture, one hand still raised awkwardly in the air. Blink at her. Process the words. Fail to process the words.
"You..." I lower my hand slowly. "You don't?"
She shakes her head. Reaches out and squeezes my hand. "Colletta, I've watched you date losers for years. Guys who needed fixing. Guys who took advantage of your big heart and your tendency to see the best in people even when the best doesn't exist. Derek was just the latest in a long line of disasters."
"I know. I'm sorry I brought him to your wedding."
