I stop rubbing my thumb raw against my phone case. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m coming up first thing Saturday,” she threatens. “Make sure you haven’t married a serial killer.”
“You can’t come next weekend.”
“Excuse me? Watch me.”
“You already took two weekends off this month for the wedding and the bachelorette party. You aired pre-recorded episodes both times. The station won’t let you skip another live show so soon. You’ll get fired. Then we’ll both be unemployed, and you have to keep your house in case this blows up and I need to move in with you.”
A dramatic groan crackles through the speaker. “Fine. But the first weekend I get free, I’m driving up there and bringing my Taser.”
“Please don’t tase my fake husband.”
“I make no promises. In the meantime, I want daily updates. Texts. Pictures. Proof of life. If you go dark for more than six hours, I’m calling the FBI.”
“Deal.”
Her voice shifts then, the teasing edge shifting into concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t have to do this. Come sleep on my couch. We’ll fight the lawsuit with… I don’t know, crowdfunding and spite. I’ll announce the campaign on the radio?—”
“Please don’t; Matt will sue you, too. I’m okay, Emmy, I swear. Or as okay as I can be given everything that’s happened in the last day.”
Another silence stretches between us, this one heavy with things we can’t do over the phone. I wish she were here, or me there. That I could curl up on her lumpy couch and drink cheap wine and let her tell me what to do. But Emma is two hours away with a radio show to host and responsibilities, and I’m about to marry a man I met yesterday.
“Call me tonight,” she says. “After dinner with his parents.”
“Okay.”
“And Peyton?”
“Yeah?”
“If anything feels wrong, anything at all, promise me you’ll come home.”
“I will.”
We say I love you and hang up.
The suite goes quiet—too quiet. A silence that amplifies every anxious thought rattling around my skull.
I grab the shopping bags, drop the robe, and step into the bikini bottoms, hooking the top behind my back. The fabric is soft, and the fit surprisingly good.
I pull the clothes on next, turning into a suburban housewife who has strong opinions about HOA regulations. Only my hairrebels, a riot of dark curls that refuses to be tamed by the hotel’s complimentary comb. I wrestle it into a messy bun and hope it passes for “carefree chic” rather than “electrocuted poodle.”
My hand trembles as I reach for the doorknob. This is it. The moment I walk out this door, I’m stepping into a borrowed life, with a man I don’t know.
But I have no choice.
The hallway is empty, plushly carpeted, and lined with tasteful landscape paintings. My half-a-number-too-big shoes make no sound as I pad toward the elevator bank and step into a free one. The lobby button glows when I press it.
The car lurches downward, and my stomach churns but it has nothing to do with the brief dip of weightlessness. My palms grow clammy as the floor numbers tick down. By the time I reach the ground level, my heart is hammering so hard I’m certain everyone in the lobby will hear it.
The doors slide open, and the noise of the resort washes over me.
The space is bright and bustling with the Sunday crowds. Families checking out, couples lingering over brunch, bellhops wheeling luggage carts. My attention doesn’t linger on any of them. A single figure matters in the chaos.
Liam is sitting in a plush armchair near the windows, one ankle crossed over his knee, scrolling through his phone with the effortless confidence of someone used to getting everything he wants. He looks completely at ease. Like he owns the place.
Which, I remind myself, he does.