Page 82 of The Fake Dating War

“Pity.”

“Ha-ha.”

“So that’s it? That’s your answer?”

“No,” I say, deciding not to be an insincere prick. “More seriously, there’s a generosity to the whole wedding I didn’t expect. Your family wants everyone to have the most fun, to eat the most, to drink the most, and to celebrate the most. It’s like they are opening their hearts because each person needs to feel welcomed.”

She smiles. “I love that part, too.”

“So you’re happy?”

Not that I’m gauging her mood. Or monitoring it closely.

“I’ve missed seeing everyone,” she says.

“Has there been no reason for you to get together in a while?”

“No.I’ve been… skipping large family events.”

Was it to avoid the pushiness of certain relatives? There’s been strong opinions thrown around, but I’ve also seen Patel laugh with others. What made her stay away?

Her words from the morning sound in my head.

Everyone is happy when I look like this. They—all—want me to be this—person. You can’t go backwards.

There’s a mystery to be solved. She is hiding something. A two years ago, something.

“Why have you been skipping family events?” I ask into her ear.

She bites the edge of her lip. “There was—well, I had to recover.”

That’s not what I expected her to say at all. “Recover from what?”

With terrible timing, someone calls out her name. She’s getting another drink tossed to her. They steal her attention and they chit-chat. By the time she’s turned to look back at me, she’s broadly smiling.

“Recover?” I ask, reminding her.

She shakes her head, forcing that smile wider. “It’s nothing to worry about. All good. Fine.”

I think about pushing, especially in the face of her fake insistence, but a bus full of rowdy family members spilling alcohol everywhere isn’t the best place for investigation. I mean—conversation.

“For now, I should say I owe you for being here.” She delivers a buddy-like punch to my shoulder. “For the record, if you ever need me to show up to your family events, I will.”

Instantly, I imagine her at my side during a family dinner. It takes no effort at all.

Against all four six-foot-plus brothers and my short but emotionally loud mother, she would hold her own.

My mouth is a wry twist. “Thanks for the offer.”

We don’t say anything else for a while. At some point, I see her hair has fallen over her forehead. A strand is stuck to her lip. She’s not noticed, but I have. Slowly, I tuck that piece behind her ear. She makes a noise that sounds like gratitude. When I try to pull away, her head follows my hand, so I press my fingers through her hair again. Goosebumps show up along her arms.

Okay, she’s not unaffected by this. And there should be a lot of satisfaction in pulling her down to my desperate level, but all I feel is good. Her eyes are big, brown, soft, and dreamy as they meet mine. I can’t stop running my hand along the back of her head, and on a random stroke, she relaxes into me. The swell of her breast presses against my arm. Her arm curls around my head, and her fingers start playing with the hair on the nape of my neck. It almost breaks the limits of my self-control not to groan.

“Keep going,” I urge in a low voice.

“Only because I’m bored. Not because I want to,” she argues, her voice also a whisper.

“Same.”

---