Realistically, yeah, this whole thing is fake. A legal arrangement wrapped in a PR strategy.
But pretending I don’t care how her sisters see me? That would be a bigger lie.
So if taking their bags gets me one step closer to keeping the peace and keeping whateverthisis between Olive and me? I’ll do it.
Doesn’t mean I’ve gone soft. Just means I’m paying attention.
I do, however, regret not having at least Ryder or Orlando here with me.
The lack of testosterone is already making me feel uneasy, and it’s barely been seven hours.
I help my driver, Wellington, load up the car with everyone’s luggage, and take the passenger seat while the three girls load into the back.
We spent the car ride back to our hotel the same way we spent the flight.
Them gossiping about God knows what, and me doing my absolute best to stay out of conversation, and even more so—the firing line.
When we pull up to the hotel, Wellington parks the car in the VIP section before helping me lug the bags out.
Paparazzi are already on our tail, snapping pictures of me wheeling and carrying bags, while my soon-to-be bride hangs back with her sisters, arms linked through each other’s as we enter the luxurious lobby.
"I have a reservation for Mike Hannigan," I say quietly, careful not to let anybody hear the name I use when I check in to places like this.
"Sorry, did you just referenceFriends?" Lizzie asks from behind me. "Olive, what’s the code name you now use for hotel rooms?"
Olive joins me at my side, rubbing her hand along my back so naturally.
I shudder at her touch, but I do my best to ignore the way it makes me feel.
"Regina Phalange." She smiles brightly up at me and then toward her twin.
"I just heard him use Mike Hannigan." Lizzie snickers, and Olive nearly chokes on her saliva, while the trio of girls burst out laughing behind me.
Heat rushes to my cheeks instantly. I should’ve known they’d be fans of arguably the greatest sitcom of all time. I'm surprised Lizzie didn't joke about me being Olive's lobster.
"I would’ve been more turned on if you used Crap Bag," Olive whispers to me, tip-toeing as high as she can go, and laughter rumbles through my chest.
"The Mike to your Phoebe," Lizzie swoons, hands crossed over her chest, almost making a heart shape, while Jenna rolls her eyes with a smile.
"Here are your keys, Mr. Hannigan. Enjoy your stay," the receptionist tells me, handing over four key cards. Three of which belong to the same room, and one for me, right next door.
"You ladies have your own apartment with three separate bedrooms. I’ll be right down the hall if anyone needs me." I nod to the door directly beside us, then toward the one further down the dimly lit hallway.
"You’re not coming out with us, are you, Mr. Jones?" Lizzie asks, pouting.
While she and Olive look similar, I don’t feel quite the…pulltoward her that I do with Olive. I look back and forth between allthe girls, each doing something different to entice me, but when my eyes land on Olive, she remains expressionless.
Like she couldn’t care either way if I decided to join them on their night out.
It kind of stings a little.
"I had a game today. I need to rest. You girls enjoy your night," I tell them.
Olive and Jenna open their door to head inside, but Lizzie lingers back. The look of protection is engraved into her face as a permanent shield. One, I bet, she only wears when it comes to her sisters. "Avery, wait."
"You have my number. Call me if you girls need anything," I say.
She nods softly, then looks back over her shoulder.
