Page 64 of The Fake Dating War

Of course, as usual, my sister doesn’t care about my needs. She brags that the beauty in her choosing this location for her wedding is how they’re a well-oiled machine. She tells me to relax, go back to my room, and sit on my boyfriend’s face since rumor has it we were seconds away from dropping our pants and sucking each other off just minutes ago.

She says her plan is to find Gurinder and do the same. And to catch up with him on how his week is going. So far their events have been separated, but tonight both sides are coming together for a joint Jago party.

Since my sister is of no help, I try to look for my parents. They are nowhere to be found. When I cave and call my mother, she tells me how she was planning on spending more time with me and Coleman, but can’t seem to get out of bed. A nap has taken priority.

Before she goes back to sleep, I tell her to stop dad from bringing upmarriageandmeandthis week.Even if I wasn’t passing off a fake-boyfriend as real, in no reality would I bandwagon my wedding to my sister’s big moment. For one, she would kill me. Second, I doubt I’ll ever get married again.

Not that my family understands this.

They’re already imagining Coleman and I will be together forever. Once again, I realize I hadn’t thought this whole fake-dating plan through. I didn’t factor in what would happenafterthe wedding. For sure, every call I get from my family will now include questions about my future with him. They’ll keep pushing about timelines, proposals, moving in together, babies…

How do I stop that?

Maybe by the end of this week, I’ll hint at trouble in paradise? Or some big difference of opinion that is forcing us apart? Or a road-bump we have in bed…?

No one is going to believe that last one. Especially now.

His delicious grip on my neck as he toyed with my mouth…

No! Not thinking about that.

To keep distracting myself, I message Leo. He’s sent a photo of Wyatt in gorgeous, sunny Jamaica. Below it is a message:My vacation is better than yours.And a follow-up:Have you fucked Satan yet?

I refuse to answer his question, because I’m repressing hard right now, but I send him a selfie. I’m behind a fern in the hotel lobby, so his vacation is better than mine at the moment. Putting my phone away, I scan the foyer. Everyone has either left to walk Main St or has already made it to their rooms. The coast seems clear.

I dash through the lobby and I’m smiling because I think I’ve made it without ambush, but then I meet my cousin Manu and her husband there,sanstheir children for once.Dammit!

We greet each other and make small-talk. They don’t allude to my divorce, how they had little hope for my future, or ask about my ovaries. Actually, they say it’s been too long since we’ve caught up and seem happy to see me.

When the elevator comes, we step inside.

“Your boyfriend seems great,” says Manu. “I can tell he loves you.”

U-turning away from that topic, I compliment her outfit. My mistake. Suddenly we’re talking about Indian outfits, and Manu is telling me how her husband is a clothing horse, and it’s noticed that he and Coleman have similar body proportions. They are both tall and athletic.

The elevator opens to their floor, but Manu keeps the door open with her hand. “Does he have any traditional Indian outfits?”

Considering Coleman was a last-ditch date, no, he does not. “We’ve had a… busy year. There wasn’t time for him to get any ordered, but it’s fine. He brought his formal suits and they are nice!”I assume.

Not all relatives are bad. Some are good or neutral, and some have an insanely generous Punjabi spirit. This pair falls into the last category. Manu won’t let it go. She insists her husband has an extra outfit they can spare for tonight, drags my room number out of me, and promises to deliver it for Coleman to try shortly.

After they leave, I will the elevator to hurry the fuck up. I’m sweating.

If they come inside my room, it won’t have his things in it. It won’t look occupied by a couple!

In a flash, I’m pounding on Coleman’s door, praying the corridor stays empty.

When he finally answers, I step back and gasp. “What are you wearing?!”

Smoothing a hand over his face, he then brings it to the back of his neck and scratches. It makes his pectoral bunch, which I very much notice since he’s got no shirt on! Not only that, but the raising of his biceps makes it that much more obvious that his upper body is a powerful “V” shape knitted with clear, mappable muscles that would make any fitness trainer delirious with pride.

“This isn’t some Vegas strip-show,” I scold. “Cover yourself!”

“I wasresting, Patel.” He moves to the side enough that I can duck in. “Don’t knock as if the building is burning, and I’ll have time to put on a shirt next time.”

Spotting his luggage, I go straight for it and grab the handle. The rest of the room—true to form—is absurdly neat.

“Does it need more henna?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

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