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He fans out the fabric bolts on the table, silk and lace and satin. I force myself to smile. I wish I could be happy about my wedding dress. It’d be the bare minimum for me to muster the same enthusiasm that my friend’s dedicating to this. But guilt churns cold in my gut.

“I’ll defer to you,” I say. It’s his creative project, after all. And since I’m not supposed to have an emotional stake in this wedding, I shouldn’t have strong opinions about the dress, either.

It isn’t real, I remind myself. After our annulment, Liam and I will have to go back to our old normal, and so it can’t be real. No matter how uncomfortably real our moment at the gun range felt yesterday.

As I flip blindly through Antoine’s lookbook, I tell myself that it was the right decision to ask Cora for help with my shooting practice.

* * *

She shows me all that I need to know. Unsurprisingly, Cora’s aim is lethal. She makes it look effortless, but she’s from Boston’s most infamous mafia family. She was born for this life.

I wasn’t.

While Cora isn’t the most patient teacher, she repeats every instruction I ask her to. She’s a tough-love sort of coach, but it’s still love.

“You’ll get there,” she says, sighing with every shot I miss.

I’m definitely not a natural shot, but I wasn’t a natural seamstress either. It’s just a matter of committing myself to this role too. Buying Liam time to find his true happiness is worth it.

Every time I think of Liam’s real wife, whoever she’ll be, I envision her as someone like Cora. A mafia daughter who comes with an alliance and an innate understanding of the life. And skill with a gun.

For some reason, that’s the thought that improves my aim. Granted, my gun has a red dot sight that feels like training wheels, but by the time Cora calls it a night, I’m consistently hitting in the eight and nine ranges on the distant target.

And I’m proud of that. It’s not much, but it’s something, a tangible skill improvement I can literally point to. And most importantly, it’s a mafia skill. I can’t wait to tell Liam.

But when I get back to his penthouse, it’s empty.

I’d figured he might be out, but disappointment makes my stomach sink anyway. He’s avoiding me. We’re avoiding each other.

Sullenly, I fix myself a lonely dinner, pulling together the quality ingredients in Liam’s fridge. I know it’s technically my fridge now too, in my kitchen, in my penthouse. But I can’t bring myself to think of anything here belonging to me. Ours is a temporary arrangement. I may be a long-term visitor, but I’m still a visitor.

When it’s an hour past my usual bedtime, Liam still hasn’t returned home. Sighing, I change into my pajamas, flick off the light and climb into his bed. I should be tired, but my mind won’t let me go to sleep. I can’t stop thinking about yesterday: me and Liam in that tiny booth, and the moment we’d shared on the precipice of our friendship.

If only I’d turned around in his arms, looked up into his emerald eyes. With the fronts of our bodies pressed together, I would’ve felt his hardness pressed hard against my belly. The feel of him, so stiff and thick, the evidence of him wanting me as badly as I want him.

Lying in bed, the very thought sends a rush of heat to my core. I drift my hand down between my legs, where my pulse throbs, aching for release. Unable to resist, I slide my fingers beneath my panties, then slowly begin to circle them against my clit.

If Liam and I had been face to face in that private booth, I could’ve shifted my hips, stood on tiptoe to feel the press of his hardness right where I needed it. He would’ve tightened his arms around me, making me feel secure in his strong grasp. With that strength of his, he would have lifted me onto that hip-height shelf, tearing off my pants and panties in one go.

I’d have spread my knees for him, and we’d both be fully naked by then, with the taut muscles of Liam’s bare torso warm and firm beneath my touch. I’d cling to his shoulders as he stood between my thighs, positioning himself at my entrance.

Beneath the bedsheets, I realize I’m sweating, and I fling off the covers, closing my eyes to better picture Liam. As I imagine him pushing into me, I slip a finger inside myself. I’m so slick with the thought of Liam that I pump my finger easily, but it isn’t enough. I’ve felt how thick he is, and when I slide another finger into my channel, I know it still doesn’t compare to him. But it’s all I can take for now.

As I piston two fingers inside myself, I think of Liam being the one to bring me this pleasure. He’d start out slow, but then we’d both lose control, and together we’d become frantic, abandoning ourselves in each other.

“Liam,” I moan into the dark, imagining I’m saying it against his lips. The sound of his name like that, filled with my lust for him, enhances the realness of my fantasy. I moan it again, louder this time, and now I’m close to cresting. I slide my fingers from my channel to rub my clit for sweet release, arching off the bed so forcefully the mattress dips beneath me.

With my orgasm ready to burst, the mattress dips again. But this time, it’s to my side, a motion I didn’t cause.

My eyes fly open, and I gasp.

Liam’s climbing into bed with me, a muscular silhouette in the dark. At my gasp of panic, he freezes. I can’t see his expression, but for once, I don’t want to. There’s no way he didn’t hear me moan his name, no way he could’ve mistaken what I was doing.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment. I try to steady my breathing, but I’m panting too hard, a dead giveaway. Belatedly, I jerk my hand out of my pajama pants, then grab for the sheets I flung aside. The scent of my desire in the air is faint, but unmistakable, and all I can do is try to smother it beneath the blankets.

Gripping the covers, I pull them over my shoulders, turning away from Liam in an ungainly flopping motion. Facing the edge of the bed, I can still sense him behind me, even though he’s remained utterly still. He’s waiting for me, I realize. To do something, to say something, to acknowledge what he’s caught me doing, to admit my undeniable lust for him.

“Goodnight,” I manage, a strange croak into the dark. I cringe, my shoulders up to my ears, my face hot, my fingers slick, my panties soaked. And my breathing, still so heavy, is like I’ve just sprinted a mile.