“Oh my God!” Megan exclaims. “Isn’t that the place where Matt first told you he loved you?”
The fireworks in my stomach turn into TNT, detonating straight through my core.
She told her about that?
Megan and Jordan have always been close. Even closer back then. So it shouldn’t be surprising. I know women talk, but…
She told her?
My fingers find their way back to my collar, and I clear my throat, my voice coming out rough. “I need some water.” I steal a quick glance at Jordan,my wife,and ask, “You need anything?”
She shakes her head. “I’m good. Thanks.”
I make my way to the bar, my head so wrapped up in my thoughts that everything else blurs: the people I pass, the murmured condolences, the clink of glasses and silverware against dinner plates.
That story.
That place.
My new wife.
“Can I get a water?” I ask the bartender.
What the hell was that?
She wasn’t just selling the lie. She chose that place because it meant something to her.
Christ. It’s hot in here.
The bartender slides a glass of water in front of me, and I down it like it’s oxygen.
This whole thing was my idea. I know that. And whether we’re married now or next week shouldn’t matter. The timeline isn’t the problem.
It’s the realization that whatever we’re calling this—fake, temporary, strategic—it just became something else entirely. It crossed into a territory I wasn’t prepared for.
“Can I get another one?” I ask.
The bartender lifts a brow. “Water?”
I nod. “And a shot of tequila,” I add, before I can overthink it.
“Sure thing.” He takes my glass.
I’ve lost control.
Fuck.
Of everything. Custody. The lie. My goddamn feelings. The fact that this just cracked something open I’ve spent years keeping contained.
And I sure as shit can’t control or predict my fake wife and the thoughts going on in her head. If that were possible, the last decade would’ve gone very differently.
I pound the tequila shot the second it’s set in front of me, then draw in a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
“Shots at a funeral,” a deep voice says behind me, smug and sharp enough to cut glass. “Classy.”
My spine stiffens, goosebumps prickling up my neck.
My father.
