Because why not? Her best friend is unconscious? Let’s share all his secrets with a stranger.
I scoff, bitterly amused. “My dad actually approves of this situation.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“He’s relieved I’ve finally made a responsible, traditional choice.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. “Settling down. Getting married without the circus of a society wedding. For once in my life, the old man is proud of me. The problem will be telling him you’re not, in fact, my wife. That this is all a misunderstanding.”
I wonder, not for the first time since waking up, what the hell I’m going to do now.
The bride—Peyton, my brain suddenly supplies—watches me across the table, her eyes unreadable. They’re lighter in the morning sun, more hazelnut than brown.
“So.” She breaks the silence. “What happens now?”
I wish I had an answer.
9
LIAM
I drain my coffee cup, wishing caffeine could fix my life instead of merely waking me up. The sun is high in the sky now, glazing the lake in blinding silver that hurts my eyes, but at least the headache has downgraded from a jackhammer to a steady drumbeat.
I set down my cup. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
I stand too quickly, my knee knocking the table—thankfully, it’s the right one. Peyton jumps. She’s still sleep-rumpled, with a flake of croissant clinging to her lower lip.
“Where are you going?”
“To handle the mess I left downstairs. And to find pants that fit me.” I gesture at the door. “Keep the suite for the day. Order whatever you want. Get a massage. Decompress.”
“Decompress,” she repeats. “Right. Thanks. I appreciate the food. And the… not kicking me out.”
“Do you need anything before I go?”
Her gaze darts to the corner where her wedding dress lies in a crumpled heap. Her nose crinkles as her mouth pulls tight.
“Does this hotel have a boutique? Or a gift shop? I don’t want to squeeze back into that.”
“I’ll send options up,” I say. “The concierge can pull a few things from our resort collection. Any preferences?”
“Anything with pockets.” The ghost of a smile tugs at her lips. “And no corsets. I’m done with stuff that makes it hard to breathe.”
“Pockets and freedom of movement. Got it.”
I make a beeline for the door. Three more steps and I’m free. Free of the memory of her body underneath mine. Free of the way her voice sounds in the morning—rougher, warmer. Free of the inconvenient tug in my chest that tells me walking away is the wrong move.
Behind me, a phone buzzes against the nightstand. I turn. Peyton stiffens in her chair before standing and approaching the bed like she’s going near a feral beast.
She sits on the mattress, posture rigid as she picks up. She’s gone from the exhausted calm of breakfast to this locked-up tension in the space of a heartbeat.
“Mom?” Peyton’s voice trembles and drops to a muffled, barely audible tone. She turns away from me.
I should leave. I’ve done my part. I fed her, housed her, I said my goodbyes. Whatever drama is unfolding on that call is none of my business. She’s a stranger. But my feet are rooted to the floor.
“This morning?” Her shoulders hunch. “Already? On a Sunday? How’s that even possible?”
The silence that follows is excruciating. Tension coils tighter in her spine.
“Yeah, he threatened to do it,” she whispers, “but I hoped he’d change his mind… I didn’t think Matt would actually…” Her voice grows smaller, more strained. The color drains from her face until she looks like she might be sick.
