Page 85 of It's Not All Fake

I hurry through the exit door beside the large screen, my heart beating wildly. The cool night air fills my lungs as I step into a small courtyard garden behind the theater. The garden is enchantingly lit by the soft illumination from movie posters along the theater’s outer wall. During the day, I’m sure it bustles with people, sitting at the wrought iron tables, sipping coffee, and nibbling on croissants around the grand, ornate fountain.

Now, it’s empty. The fountain is silent, and the area is tranquil except for the distant sounds of the town beyond the encircling buildings.

Liam is nowhere to be seen.

I walk towards the silent fountain at the center of the courtyard, puzzled.

He has to be here. How could he not be?

Feeling bewildered, I sit on the edge of the fountain, surveying the lonely courtyard.

Maybe it was just an apology, I muse. Perhaps nothing more. His apologies could be as elaborate as his efforts to appease his mother. Not that he owes me any apology—our arrangement was as much my doing as his.

I exhale, trying to quiet the thoughts and questions churning in my mind as I gaze at the treasure trove of pennies and dimes gleaming on the bottom of the fountain. So many wishes cast into this water.

My heart has one wish now, one I don’t dare acknowledge for fear it won’t come true.

Suddenly, drops disturb the tranquil surface of the fountain's water, rippling my reflection. I glance up as more droplets fall—a soft, unexpected rain begins to patter down. I stand, confused, as water kisses my face, looking up at a star-filled sky with not a cloud in sight.

Then I notice the tall black poles dotted around the courtyard's perimeter—rain towers, used on movie sets to create rain on demand.

It’s raining. My astonishment gives way to a rush of mixed emotions as my heart races.

“Chloe.”

At the sound of my name, I whirl around, wiping water from my lashes, and there he is.

Liam strides through one of the arched gateways into the courtyard. His dark navy button-down shirt is perfectly tailored, accentuating his broad chest and strong arms. Charles Day pales in comparison to Liam Wright. My breath catches. He is stunning, and his intense gaze holds me captive.

He pauses at the edge of the patio, silently observing me as we both stand in the rain, our clothes becoming damp from the cool droplets. My nerves are on edge, wondering what he’s going to say.

“Chloe,” he begins, his voice lifting over the soft drum of raindrops. He shakes his head and a long silence follows. "I had everything planned out to say to you," he finally admits. "But now, looking at you, I've gone blank."

I offer a tentative smile, uncertain if his admission is sweet or troubling. “Did you really throw a golf club?” I ask, hoping to ease the tension.

He chuckles. "Yes, I did," he confesses with a sheepish grin before slowly making his way towards me. My stomach flutters nervously at his approach.

“How’d you convince Ashley to help?” I blurt out, desperate for something to distract me from the fact that he is here, real and tangible, and I don’t know how to act or be.

He lets out a dramatic sigh, as if that was the most difficult part. "Persistence," he declares with a smirk. "She's not easily convinced, even with the promise of screen time with Charlie."

I can't help but laugh at the thought of Ashley stubbornly standing her ground.

He comes to a stop in front of me by the fountain and I look up at him, my nerves on edge as our bodies are just inches apart now.

“I didn’t know what to think after the press interview, I’m sorry,” I shrug, my clothes clinging damply to my skin. My world was in chaos, and I hit the self-destruct button—on everything, on us.

Now, seeing him again, every instinct screams that leaving was a mistake.

“No,” he shakes his head, gently dismissing my apology. “There’s so much I should have said,” he confesses, his expression tightening as rain runs off his wet brown hair, creating tiny streams down his handsome face. "I know there was a lot of make-believe, but my feelings for you are true, Chloe. They always were.” His eyes are warm and tender. “I should have told you before I lost you.”

His eyes hold a warmth and tenderness that reaches deep within me. “I should have told you before I lost you.”

He stands there, opening up in the way I had always hoped he would—vulnerable, honest, as though it were the simplest thing in the world.

My heart swells with the reassurance that it was real.

“You didn’t lose me,” I tell him.

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