Chapter Twelve
MATT
I can’t feelmy goddamn hands.
I’ve never been this nervous in my entire life. Not before a massive presentation. Not before my first real estate deal. Not even before the first time I slid a condom on.
My fingers tap against my thigh, fast and erratic. It’s annoying as hell. Jerry leans over and tells me to relax, says some other shit too, but I don’t think I process a single word. Not because he was unclear, but because I’m losing my fucking mind.
The courtroom is quiet. Too quiet.
Jerry sits back in his chair, calm and cool. The judge flips through her papers, expression unreadable. Cece’s on the other side of the room with her lawyer, her resting-bitch face holding strong.
We’re all just sitting here…
Waiting for the judge to decide who gets temporary guardianship.
I reach for my bottle of water and take a sip, trying to swallow down the reality that I am so royally fucked. I’ve been a complete mess since I walked out of Jerry’s office two days ago.
What the hell was I thinking?
Forty-eight hours ago, I was just… me.
Now my attorney just told a judge I’min the process of establishing a two-adult household.
Which is a very professional way of saying: Matthew Grayson is basically engaged.
Jesus Christ.
And my soon to be fiancée?
She doesn’t know a damn thing.
I rub my thumb across my jaw, stroking the scruff on my chin, contemplating my next move. I’m so hyper-focused on this fake life I just invented, I can’t even let myself think about the fact that Cece’s probably seconds away from getting temporary custody of Cole. Because if I let my thoughts go there—I’ll fucking cry.
No thank you.
I’d rather drown in the absurdity of this fucking fairytale I’ve conjured up for myself.
Guess I should start thinking about how to propose.
A dry, humorless laugh slips out.
Christ, I’m unhinged. I’m one intrusive thought away from full Joker-level cackling.
Holy fuck.
What have I done?
And did I just commit perjury?
I told my lawyer a blatant lie. And he just relayed it to the judge.
Jerry shoots me a sideways look but says nothing. I clear my throat, gripping my water bottle like it might keep me from passing out.
Seconds tick by, and my brain’s doing Olympic-level gymnastics, trying to figure out how I’m going to get myself out of this, or somehow make it a reality.
Oh, shit. What if Jordan actually agreed to this?
