He lets out a short laugh, then disappears into the crowd again.
The second he’s out of earshot, Payton leans in so fast I nearly spill my drink.
“Okay,whatwas that?”
Ashton fans himself with a cocktail napkin. “That man was giving ‘I’m trying to act normal, but I might combust’ energy.”
I shake my head, forcing a laugh. “You two are ridiculous.”
“No,you’reridiculous,” Payton says. “Trying to sit there all cool and collected when we all saw your pupils dilate like you were about to pounce.”
“I didnot—” I start, but Ashton cuts in.
“Oh please, you looked at him like you were one spilled drink away from climbing into his lap and declaring war on self-control.”
I cover my face with both hands. “Why are you both like this?”
“Because we love you,” Ashton says sweetly. “And because this fake engagement is about to give melife. I want weekly updates. No—daily. I want mood boards. Vibe checks. Progress reports on sexual tension levels.”
Payton points at me with her straw. “And I want you to stop pretending you’re not into him. We’re not blind.”
“I am very good at faking being composed,” I say.
“Oh honey,” Ashton smirks. “Not from where I’m sitting.”
I shake my head and laugh despite myself. “You guys are the worst.”
“And yet, here we are. Front row seats to your romantic drama,” Payton grins. “It’s giving season premiere.”
“It’s giving slow burn disaster,” Ashton says with a wink.
“It’s giving shut up you drama queens.” I lift my drink. “To fake love, business meetings, and absolutely no real feelings involved.”
They clink their glasses against mine, and Payton grins. “To denial. The sexiest stage of grief.”
I groan. “God help me.”
Chapter Eight
Esteban
Me: Hey, it’s your fiancé. I was wondering if you’re free tonight to have our first business meeting.
Istare at the message like it might bite me back. I’ve typed it, deleted it, reworded it, added a winky face then deleted it because I’m not trying to get murdered by Noah, and finally just hit send before my dignity took another hit.
Now I’m sitting in my office like an idiot on a Tuesday afternoon, phone in hand, tapping my pen against my notepad like I’m waiting for a girl to text me back in ninth grade.
Why the hell am I nervous?
This isn’t a date. This isfake. I run a hand down my face and refocus on the quote I’m supposed to send a client by tomorrow morning. I’ve written maybe three lines in the past half hour. Pathetic.
I glance around my office and then up at the framed photo of me and Noah on the day we opened the company.The two of us grinning like dumbasses. Back when life was simpler. No fake engagements, no weird fluttery stomach feelings, no Eva looking like a damn snack in those jeans and flowy blouse.
Stop thinking about her.
I grab my notepad again and start jotting down questions for our meeting. Things like: How did we meet? She probably won’t want me to say, “I caught her stealing gum when she was seven.” When did we start dating? Who proposed? And how? Because that better be some award-winning story if McNeal’s gonna buy it.
It hits me that for all the years I’ve known Eva, I don’t actuallyknowher.
