Page 72 of My Real Love Affair

I shook my head and took a drink. “She wasn’t for me.”

“Since when is that not your type?”

“Since—” I stopped. Since what? Since Melody? Since I’d started this stupid fake relationship that was supposed to be simple and uncomplicated?

“Oh man.” Rodney’s expression shifted to something like pity. “You’ve got it bad.”

“I don’t have anything.”

“You’re turning down beautiful women to mope at a bar. That’s not the Austin Bancroft I know.”

“Maybe he’s tired of being predictable.”

“Or maybe he’s falling for his girlfriend. I thought maybe you were going to be one of those guys that had his cake and all the icing and sprinkles on the side.”

“Nope. It’s not like that.”

Rodney ordered us another round. “Look, I know I gave you shit about the marriage thing. But if you actually like this girl—if she makes you happy—maybe stop fucking around on her.”

He didn’t know that I wasn’t technically fucking around on her. But I realized that nobody in this bar knew our relationship was fake. I had to be careful or I was only going to end up worsening my reputation instead of fixing it.

“Fuck,” I said.

“Yeah.” Rodney patted my shoulder. “Welcome to having feelings. It sucks.”

I tried to dance with another woman, a brunette this time, just as beautiful, just as interested. But it felt hollow. Wrong.

But I wasn’t a quitter. I would find a way to drown the unwelcome feelings that were making my head spin. More liquor would stop all of it.

CHAPTER 22

MELODY

Iwoke up Monday morning to approximately seventy-three notifications on my phone. For a moment, panic seized me. Was it another scandal? Had someone leaked something about the arrangement with Austin?

I wasn’t even sure I cared. Last night had been miserable. I didn’t want to look at anything. I needed coffee first.

I made my way to the kitchen on autopilot, my phone still buzzing incessantly on the counter where I’d abandoned it. Whatever fresh hell awaited me in those notifications could wait until I had caffeine in my system.

I pulled out my favorite mug. It was oversized and had “But First, Coffee” printed on it. Cleo had given it to me last Christmas. While it brewed, I grabbed the chocolate syrup from the fridge, the good kind that cost too much but made everything better. I could be thrifty, but some things required name brand and good quality.

My speaker sat on the windowsill. I connected my phone just long enough to pull up my playlist before tossing it face down on the counter again. The opening notes of the new Red Clay Strays album filled the kitchen, and I relaxed a little.

This was my ritual. My sanctuary. Coffee, music, and a few precious moments before I had to face the world. I made it a point to unplug for at least fifteen minutes every morning. All the online stuff could be very taxing. I had to brace myself for the usual trolls and I could only do that when I was in the right headspace.

The coffeemaker beeped. I poured the dark liquid into my mug, watching it swirl as I added a generous amount of chocolate syrup. I stirred slowly, focusing on the repetitive motion, the clink of the spoon against ceramic, the rich smell of chocolate and coffee mixing together.

I was not thinking about Austin. I was definitely not thinking about how his hands had felt on my body. Or how his lips had tasted. Or the way he’d looked at me when I’d pushed him away, like I’d hurt him somehow.

The music shifted to a slower song, something about longing and mistakes and roads not taken. I took a sip of my coffee, letting the sweetness coat my tongue.

I had done the right thing. Walking away had been the smart choice. Theprofessionalchoice. We had rules for a reason. Boundaries existed to protect both of us from exactly the kind of complication that came from kissing your fake boyfriend until you couldn’t remember your own name.

Another sip. The coffee was perfect, just the right amount of chocolate.

So why did doing the right thing feel so terrible?

I leaned against the counter, cradling my mug in both hands, and stared out the window. Monday morning in New York. People heading to work, living their lives, completely unaware that I’d spent half the night tossing and turning, replaying every moment of that kiss.