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There is no trace of that gloomy expression as he squeezes my hand again. His smile is all warmth and security, something that would usually lift my heart. But I’m shaking. Not visibly, at least I don’t think so, but it feels like all my cells are vibrating again, the way I felt in the kitchen with Liam’s hand on my hip. This time, our contact is skin to skin, my hand in his. There’s nothing disastrous in our simple touch. Or at least, there shouldn’t be.

Liam’s held my hand in reassurance before. So why should this time feel catastrophically different?

I manage a tiny nod, and he lets go of my hand to raise his glass to me. Belatedly, I realize that the server must’ve delivered our drinks, that I’d neglected to thank her, and that the cameras probably caught me being thoughtless and rude. My stomach twists as I clink my glass to Liam’s.

“To us,” he says, waiting for me to echo him before we both sip.

As the taste of sweet cherry floods my mouth, I begin to feel more at ease. Liam knows me. Not just my cocktail order, but me. I hope he can’t discern every reason behind my current turmoil, but there’s enough swirling inside of me that he does know. My insecurity about public scrutiny, my discomfort with the rippling effects of our arrangement—outcomes I should have predicted but didn’t comprehend until they were staring me down with long camera lenses.

I know there will be more unforeseen consequences to come. I also know that Liam will be at my side through it all. Because that’s the whole point of this: for us to stick close together. And yet, the prospect of staying physically close with Liam has become… fraught. In my heart, I’m comforted by his presence, but the way my body keeps reacting to his nearness, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of something.

A single misstep, and our friendship is doomed.

The server reappears, her hands clasped in front of her. When she asks us what we’d like for dinner, I go blank. We weren’t given any menus.

“Wagyu, rare,” Liam says. “And a side of colcannon.” He motions for me to order.

“I, um. May I please have a menu?” I ask the server, but Liam shakes his head.

“Order whatever you want.” He’s taking charge again. It sends that tingle down my spine, and my mind goes blank.

“If I may,” the server says kindly, “Chef DuBois has recently developed an excellent veal forestière, served with black truffle risotto and white asparagus.”

“Oh,” I say numbly. With all of the cameras pointing at me beyond the window, I want to cry. Anything but veal.

“She doesn’t like veal,” Liam says brusquely. I have to suppress my reaction to the authority in his voice, but the server’s smile doesn’t flicker.

“In that case, might I suggest the chicken fricassee, served with whipped potatoes and garlic sautéed spinach.”

“That sounds perfect, thank you,” I say with a gust of an exhale. The server bows her head and withdraws.

I avoid Liam’s gaze, not trusting myself to meet his emerald eyes. Turning away from the window, I unintentionally scan the empty dining room, the other tables’ candles like floating lights on white lily pads. Across the table, Liam clears his throat.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, and there’s a hint of demand in it. He doesn’t want me dwelling on the fact he cleared out the restaurant.

Before I turn back to him, my eye snags on the hallway to the back rooms.

“Brady and Cora,” I say. It’s the truth. The two of them celebrated their wedding mere weeks ago in one of this restaurant’s private spaces. Liam’s mouth twitches in a grin.

“They’ll be your in-laws soon.”

He’s trying to put a positive spin on things, but my shoulders sag. Yet more relatives that we’ll disappoint with our annulment.

“What’s wrong?” Liam asks. “You say all the time how much you love them.”

“I do. That’s the problem. They’re my friends and I’m lying to them. To everyone.” I almost gesture to the photographers but stop myself by folding my hands in my lap.

“Then think about it like acting instead,” he says, as if it’s that easy.

“I’m a terrible actress.”

“You were a terrible actress in seventh grade,” he says with his teasing grin. “But that was only on stage. You were excellent in class, that’s why you got the role in the first place.”

“On stage is all that counts.” I tighten my fingers together but can’t stop myself from glancing at the cameras this time.

“You’re right,” Liam says.

Then he’s standing up from his chair. Coming over to my side of the table, in full view of the window. Getting down on one knee.