She nods, shaking her head—getting herself back together. Her gaze is slightly unfocused, like she’s feeling the same daze that I am. She leans against the car for a second, then looks up at me.
“I’m—I’m good. It’s all good.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say. I offer her a smile—as natural and easy as I can make it. I’ll make the effort to stop things from being awkward between us, even if that ship has sailed.
To my relief, Olivia smiles back. She steps around the front of the car and climbs into the passenger seat.
As we drive home, we talk about the clinic—exclusivelyabout the clinic, as if that moment in the parking garage never happened. For now, it’s probably best to pretend that it didn’t happen.We’ll all laugh about it sometime in the future,I tell myself.One day, when this is all over, and everything’s normal again…
At the same time, though, part of me is cursing that rational voice in my brain, the one that stopped our kiss.How could I let that moment slip by? How could I stop—just when we were finally getting somewhere?
I do my best to ignore it. I want to do right by Olivia, especially after fucking over the proposal.
And that means following the rules. Sticking to the contract. Doing exactly what we agreed upon, and no more.
The more closely we toe the line, the less likely she is to get hurt—and that’s the most important factor.
Chapter 16
Olivia
“Anything you’d like to request?”The makeup artist Reed hired stands at the ready, an eyeshadow palette open in one hand. “Do you have a specific color in mind, or?—”
“Well, this is the dress,” I say, gesturing down at my torso. I’m wearing the gown that Riley and Sophie helped me pick out. “I’d like it to match, but—” I hesitate for a moment. “I don’t want it to be too over-the-top, you know?”
Over-the-top isn’t my style, for one thing. But for another—these photos are probably going to circulate widely. I don’t want people to cast any aspersions about me. I don’t want to give off the wrong impression—the idea that I’m just another in a string of disposable girls having a tryst with Reed.
The engagement photoshoot is scheduled for an hour from now, and Reed has arranged for me to get the royal treatment. There are two separate stylists here—one for my hair, and another for my makeup.
I should probably feel special and pampered by all this attention, but it just serves to make me feel like I’m under a spotlight. I’m so nervous, I feel like I can’t even move in this expensive dress.
It’s notme.I can’t stop thinking that everyone is going to see right through our lie. Everyone is going to realize that we’re faking it. I’m trying to play my part, but it’s so hard, and I feel like I’m already screwing it up.
The makeup artist gives me an understanding smile. “We’ll go light on the eyeshadow,” she says. “Just enough to make your eyes pop in the pictures. You have really pretty eyes.”
I nod at her gratefully. “Thanks.”
The makeup artist and the hairstylist go to work on me in tandem, and I stare at the girl in the mirror as they transform me. It’s difficult to keep as still as they want me to, and several times, the hairstylist has to grab my head to keep it steady.
When they’re done, I can hardly recognize myself. My hair is loose, falling in gentle waves over my shoulders. The stylist used some kind of sweet-smelling oil that gives it a glossy shine. My makeup is perfect, though it’s a little more than I was hoping for—crisp eyeliner, mascara, and eyeshadow tinged with a deep red that matches the dress.
I look amazing, but… I also don’t look like myself. This woman in the mirror… she’s someone else. Someone rich. And the whole production leaves me feeling more than a little intimidated.
The stylists shuffle me off into the photo studio, and I can hardly walk in the dress as they shepherd me along.
It’s humiliating. I barely feel like a person as I step out in front of the classic white backdrop, taking my place next to Reed.
The photographer, a lanky, wiry-haired man, barks directions, and several other workers adjust the lights—and adjust our bodies, making sure we’re posed correctly. Everything’s so bright, I can’t stop squinting. The lights are scorching my retinas.
The photographer points at me. “Open your eyes! We need to be able to see your eyes.”
I do my best to comply, but I must look like a dead fish with my eyelids peeled back like this. I can tell that the photographer isn’t happy with my expression, but for the moment, he goes back to directing his staff.
This is so much—this production. There must be ten or fifteen people in this room, just to take a few photographs. Is this really all necessary?
Beside me, Reed seems so relaxed, perfectly dressed in a maroon suit jacket that goes with the burgundy colors in my dress. He wears a white shirt beneath it, and matching slacks.
Reed’s time in the makeup chair is less noticeable than mine, but they’ve given him a light touch-up. His hair is swept back and moussed. He looks like he’s about to appear on the cover of GQ.
