Sweat beads along my hairline. “Okay, maybe a little. But notrealfeelings. Just…” I shrug and try to sound breezy. “I like talking to him. I like the version of me I am when I talk to him.”
Gemma doesn’t say anything right away, and the silence fills with the ghosts of the things I don’t want to admit.
Finally, she says, “Amanda, I love you, and I can’t help but worry about you. You’ve never been in the same room with this guy or talked to him face-to-face. What if the version of Declan Thorne you’ve built up in your head, the version of him you’re connecting with, doesn’t vibe with who he actually is?”
The words land harder than I want them to. Because if that’s true—if Declan’s presenting some shinier, edited version of himself—then he’s just doing what I’m doing. And I really don’t want to think too hard about what that means.
Gemma grips my hand in hers, smooths the soft pad of her thumb along my knuckles. “I feel like sometimes you fall for the idea of a person so quickly, you forget to ask if they’re even real.”
Pop.
The balloon I’ve been clinging to—inflated with hope and fantasy—deflates in a single breath. Now there’s just the slow hiss of reality.
I try to laugh it off, but the sound gets stuck in my throat.
“Hey.” Gemma squeezes my fingers. “I’m sure this guy isn’t some lying loser. I’m sure he’s exactly who he’s presenting himself to be. I don’t think terrible assholeseven know how to employ proper grammar.”
My laugh is paper thin. “It’s fine,” I say, forcing a smile that feels like it’s glued on crooked. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be.” Her voice is even softer now, like she knows I’m barely holding it together. “I just want you to find something real. That’s all. You deserve that.”
I nod, but I can’t quite speak. My throat is too dry. My rib cage feels too tight, my dress too fitted, the air too warm. Not even chugging the rest of my green juice is going to help, and I added ashwagandha to this batch specifically for calm and clarity.
My phone buzzes.
I practically leap for it, breath whooshing out of my lungs like I’ve been underwater.
Saved by the bell. Or the buzz. Either way, it’s an excuse to look anywhere but at her.
DECLAN:Are you free tonight?
My stomach flips, equal parts anticipation and dread. The kind of drop felt at the top of a roller coaster right before the plunge.
I glance at Gemma. Then back at my phone as it vibrates again.
DECLAN:I leave for Dubai in the morning, but before I go I want to make this fantasy real.
DECLAN:Rendezvous at 9. At Ember. Dress code’s: make me regret not meeting you sooner.
I read the messages once. Then again. Then fivemore times to be sure I’m not hallucinating.
He wants to meet me.
Tonight.
My entire body goes rigid. My soul rolls over and plays dead. A weird, nauseating cocktail ofit’s finally happeningandI might throw upswirls in my gut.
It’s not that I didn’t think he’d ever ask. I just didn’t think he’d asknow. With no warning. With less than an hour of mental preparation. I thought I’d have time to memorize new affirmations and rituals that make pretending I’m fine feel almost the same as actually being fine. Instead, I’ve been dropped into the deep end of a pool I built myself—tile by tile, text by text, fantasy by fantasy.
“Okay,” I whisper, squeezing my phone until my knuckles go white, “what the actual fuck am I supposed to do?”
Gemma’s lips form a tight O, eyebrows raised like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “The dating app god wants to meet.”
“I hate how psychic you are.”
She lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It’s part of my charm.”
I pick up my previously ignored champagne flute and down the entire thing. Bubbles burn a trail down my chest, fire with a floral finish, and I nearly cough it back up.
