Page 36 of Enchanted to Meet You

“Nice of you to join us, Ainsley,” Kelcey said, her voice dropping into that razor-thin register of fake warmth that instantly set my teeth on edge. Her sharp eyes swept over me, lingering on the giant Crofton varsity jacket completely swallowing my upper half. “I see you’ve really embraced the Crofton look. Though... aren’t you worried someone from Parkhurst is going to see you?”

The table went quiet for a fraction of a second. My chest tightened. This was the test. Kelcey was picking at the edges, looking for the seam in the lie we’d spun five nights ago at Justin’s party. If I looked uncomfortable—if I acted like I was being held hostage in Rhys Montgomery’s clothes—the whole facade collapsed right here on a sticky vinyl booth.

Before I could freeze, Rhys shifted. His arm moved from my shoulder, sliding down my back to settle heavily on my waist. He tilted his head down, resting his temple near mine, his breath warm against my ear as he played his part with terrifying ease.

“She’s fine, Kelcey.” Rhys’s voice laced with a possessive confidence that made my stomach do an unwanted somersault. “She was freezing. I’m just looking out for my girl.”

My girl. The phrase rolled off his tongue like he’d said it a million times before.

I forced myself to lean into him, resting my head against his shoulder as if I did this every single day. I reached under the table, placing my hand casually on his thigh. I felt his muscle flex like he was surprised by the touch, but his expression remained entirely cool, entirely unimpressed.

I smoothed my hand slightly down his leg, exaggerating the touch just enough for Kelcey to notice. Rhys didn’t flinch, but I felt a subtle hitch in his breathing before he casually rested his hand over mine, his heavy fingers lacing through mine under the laminate table.

Kelcey’s smile faltered for a microsecond. Her eyes dropped to where our hands were hidden, then flicked up to Justin. Justin’s smirk faded entirely, his jaw tightening as he stared down at his glass.

Score one for the fake relationship.

I kept up the act, leaning my weight against Rhys’s broad shoulder, letting my gaze drift lazily around the neon-lit diner to project the image of a happy girlfriend.

That was when my vision locked onto the front entrance. Sitting in a small two-top booth right beneath the harsh, buzzing glow of the pie display case was a man in a slate-grey peacoat.

My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it plummeted off a cliff. My dad was laughing. He was reaching across the salt-shaker-laden table, covering the small, manicured hand of a woman with long, sleek blonde hair. She tilted her head back, laughing at something he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. As she shifted, her heavy winter coat slipped off the back of her chair, revealing the undeniable, rounded curve of a late-stage pregnancy bump.

Hilary.

The ambient noise of the diner—Landon’s loud retelling of a missed referee call, the clatter of silverware, the high-pitched squeak of sneakers on linoleum—bled into a static hum.

I hadn’t seen my father in person since last July. Not since the afternoon he packed two leather suitcases into the trunk of his sedan while my mother stood at the kitchen sink, staring blankly into a cold cup of tea. He hadn’t come to my ballet showcases. He hadn’t come to my birthday. The last time I’d heard his voice was three months ago, calling to tell me with breezy, detached enthusiasm that I was going to be a big sister, and that he ‘really hoped I could find it in my heart to be happy for them.’

My fingers reflexively dug into the fabric on Rhys’s thigh, my nails practically cutting through the fabric. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t blink. My eyes were glued to my father as he reached across the table to tuck a loose strand of blonde hair behind Hilary’s ear—a gesture he used to do to my mum every single Sunday at the breakfast table.

If he turned his head three inches to the left, he would see me. If Hilary looked up, she would recognize me instantly—she’d met Imogen a million times, and because we were identical twins, there would be zero doubt.

I didn’t care about the Crofton sweater anymore. I didn’t care about the rivalry or Kelcey or Justin or the ridiculous revenge scheme we were pulling off. A cold, suffocating wave of pure panic slammed into my ribs: He’s going to walk over here. He’s going to try to talk to me.

“Ainsley?”

The voice was low, sharp, and right at my ear. His thumb stopped moving against my hand. His entire posture shifted from casually relaxed to intensely alert. He felt the sudden, unnatural stiffness that had taken over my frame, the way my grip on his leg was cutting off his blood flow.

“Ainsley,” he repeated, quieter this time, his tone dropping into something flat and demanding. “What’s wrong?”

My throat was bone-dry. I tried to swallow, but my mouth felt full of dust. My father was picking up the black leather check folder. He was reaching into his pocket for his wallet. They were getting ready to leave—which meant they were about to walk down the central aisle, right past our booth.

“My... my dad,” I whispered, the words barely carrying over the sound of Landon arguing with the waiter about extra ranch. “He’s here.”

Rhys didn’t immediately turn his head to gawk. He kept his green eyes locked on my face, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Your dad?”

“At the front booth,” I breathed, my voice trembling so badly I could barely keep it quiet. “With his girlfriend.”

I knew Rhys didn’t have the context. I hadn’t told him about the messy divorce or the affair or the baby shower invitation currently sitting at the bottom of the trash can behind my house. To Rhys, I was just Sebastian’s annoying younger sister, a tool he was using to make his ex-girlfriend jealous. He had no reason to care, no reason to understand why a middle-aged man was causing me to hyperventilate.

I expected him to ask questions. I expected him to tell me to pull it together so we didn’t break character in front of Kelcey.

Instead, Rhys’s eyes flicked toward the front doors for a microsecond, tracking the couple standing up near the register, before snapping straight back to my pale, frozen face.

Without saying a word, he unceremoniously slid his hand off my waist, planted both palms on the laminate table, and stood up out of the booth.

“Alright,” Rhys said, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise of the table. “We’re out.”