Page 74 of My Real Love Affair

My phone buzzed. A text. For a moment, my heart leaped, thinking it might be Austin.

It was Cleo letting me know she was on the way.

I took a quick shower and got dressed for the day. I did my best to ignore the memories that demanded dominance in my head.

I had just come downstairs when I heard the three quick knocks followed by my door opening.

Cleo. She had a spare key.

“Hey,” I called out.

She stormed in like a hurricane, her face thunderous, her purple hair practically crackling with rage.

“Thatasshole,” she said by way of greeting.

“Good morning to you too?”

“Don’t.” She held up her phone, shoving it in my face. “Just don’t. I hate that son of a bitch!”

“Which son of a bitch would that be?” I asked with confusion.

Her phone bounced in front of my face, threatening to make me cross-eyed.

I looked at the screen and felt my stomach drop to my feet.

It was a photo from some gossip Instagram account. The caption read:Already over? Austin Bancroft spotted getting cozy with mystery blonde at Club Lux last night. What happened to Melody?

The photo showed Austin on a dance floor, a gorgeous blonde pressed against him, her hands on his chest. He wasn’t kissing her—thank God—but they were close. Intimate. Like they were about to get naked right there on the dance floor.

And it had been taken last night. After I had left. After our kiss. After I told him to call someone if he needed a hookup. And apparently, he had.

The air left my lungs in a rush.

“I’m going to kill him,” Cleo said, her voice deadly calm. “I’m going to actually murder him. They’ll find his body in the Hudson, and I won’t even feel bad about it.”

“Cleo, no.”

“Don’t defend him. Don’t you dare defend him.” She was pacing now. The many bracelets she wore jangled and clanked as she gestured wildly. “You said you had a nice dinner with his family right now, right?”

I nodded. I didn’t have words. I had texted her after I got home, but I didn’t tell her anything. I couldn’t bring myself to admit to the kiss. Or to describe how coldly angry his father had been.

“He goes out and does this?” Cleo snorted. “What a prick. World-class dickhead.”

I wanted to say something. Wanted to explain that I had pushed him away, that this was technically what I’d suggested. But I couldn’t get words past the lump in my throat.

Seeing that photo hurt. Really hurt. Even though I had no right to be hurt.

Cleo continued to rail against him. She got pretty creative with the names. I could have defended him.

“Why did I ever think this was a good idea?” I said, my voice small.

Cleo stopped pacing. “It’s not your fault.”

“No, seriously. Why did I think this could work? That I could fake date a notorious playboy and not get hurt?” I laughed, but it sounded hollow. “God, I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot. He’s an asshole.”

“I told him to go call someone.” The admission came out quiet. “Last night. We went back to his place. We, uh, kissed. A little. But I stopped it. I told him if he needed a hookup, he should call someone else.”