"I meant it before I was engaged to you." The side of his mouth lifts. "That dress. I remember that dress."
My core clenches, and I hope he can't sense it. God, how is it possible to get turned on by those words? Those aren't sexy, seductive words. He's just complimenting me.
I'm still trying to untangle my knots of emotions when he threads his fingers through mine. "Ready?"
I feel the jolt all the way to my toes. "Ready as I'll ever be."
Dean's just holding my hand. It shouldn't be a big deal, but that's all it takes to make me forget how to function like a normal person. And my normal is already pretty weird.
We pass other guests heading to the pavilion. They smile at us, and I try to smile back, try to look like a woman in love instead of a woman drowning in want.
"You okay, Liz?"
"Yeah. Just … everyone's watching."
"Good." He squeezes my hand lightly. "That's the point."
Right. The point.
But what happens when I can't tell the difference between performing and wanting anymore?
The pavilion glows ahead. Twinkle lights strung between white columns, tropical flowers everywhere, music drifting on the ocean breeze. It's beautiful. Romantic. Exactly the kind of setting where fake engagements feel dangerously real.
We walk in together, and conversations pause.
People turn. Smiles bloom across faces. Knowing glances pass between guests.
"Oh, look, the newly engaged couple."
"I heard he proposed in front of everyone."
"He gave her his grandmother's ring."
Ugh, I hate this kind of attention. Actually, any kind of attention. My skin prickles with awareness, with the weight of eyes on us, and Dean's hand tightens around mine like he knows. Because he does. He knows everything about me, except my real feelings for him.
"Liz! Dean!" Maura waves from a high-top table, cocktail in hand. Mom stands beside her, already three or four drinks deep if her flushed cheeks are any indication.
My stomach drops. Why Maura doesn't just allow herself to be happy at her own wedding and has to drag me every chance she gets, I have no idea.
"Showtime," Dean whispers against my ear, and the brush of his breath makes me shiver.
We navigate through clusters of guests. Every few steps, someone stops us—congratulations, when's the wedding, how did he propose, let me look at that ring—and we smile and lie, and I'm amazed at how good we are at this.
How goodheis at this.
He touches me constantly. Hand on my waist when someone asks about the proposal. A random kiss to the temple. I never realized how touchy he could be. I mean, I've never seen him with his ex-girlfriends, so I don't really know how he acts as a lover.
I can't say I'm not liking it, though, especially when he plants a kiss on my bare shoulder, and my whole body stiffens, sparks light up my nerve endings, and a gush of wet heat pools in my lace underwear.
It will be soaked before this night is through.
Dean settles beside me, close enough that our thighs press together under the table.
There's plenty of room. The table isn't crowded. He could shift six inches to the right, and we'd have space. But no. Dean's thigh is solid and warm against mine, and I have to finish an entire glass of water because of how suddenly thirsty I am.
He doesn't move, but neither do I.
Appetizers arrive. Some kind of tropical salad with mango and avocado that probably tastes amazing but might as well be cardboard because Dean's hand lands on my knee under the table, and my fork clatters against the plate.
