Page 13 of The Fiance Dilemma

I tipped my chin up like the liar I was. “Okay, Bella Swan, but I wasn’t.” I leaned down, snagged the checkered pajama shirt on the floor, and threw it at him. “I need to talk to you and yournippiesare staring into my eyes, like two beacons of manhood asking to be acknowledged. So if you don’t mind?”

Matthew caught the shirt with a laugh. The sound warmed my chest. Just a little. “Never thought I’d have my nipples being callednippies,”he said, slipping his arms into the sleeves. “Or beacons of manhood.” He buttoned up. “I can’t wait to hear what you say when you realize I’m wearing no pants.”

My brows shot up, so high and so fast, they probably left a mark on my scalp.

“I…”

I’d just lost my focus. My nerve too.

Because I’d had a plan, I knew I had one. That was why I’d been waiting for Matthew to wake up before I left to open Josie’s Joint, the coffee shop whose doors should have already been welcoming customers. I’d wanted to talk to him. Yes. But it was a little hard to do that now. Why wasn’t he wearing the pajama bottoms he’d borrowed? Did I leave the heating too high? Did he simply sleep in the nude? Was Matthew not wearing any underwear? God. How was I supposed to think, much less sound convincing now?

I really couldn’t catch a break, could I?

All I’d wanted was to pick things up where we’d left them last night. To give him the full picture I had now, after researching instead of sleeping, which is exactly why I was on my way to a fifth espresso.

The moment my head hit the pillow, Bobbi’s words had returned to haunt me.

Maybe you should have a listen to a podcast calledFilthy Reali-Tea.Season three, episode twelve, minute eighteen. They dissect the whole thing in detail. It’s shockingly insightful.

It would have been really stupid—or naïve—not to check. So I did. Together with every single entry Google had offered about Andrew Underwood. Even the ones I hadn’t fully understood. The ones about stock value and personal scandals affecting business. As if hearing—and watching—two strangers who really hadmillionsof listeners dissect my existence in a five-minute section where they discussed unrelated A-list gossip wasn’t enough of a blow.

The memory brought goose bumps to my skin. As if I were somehow thrust back in time and I was lying in bed all over again. Headphones plugged in and wide eyes blankly staring at the wall in front of me while the voices of two strangers curled around insecurities I didn’t know I had.

INTERIOR—FILTHY REALI-TEASTUDIO—DAY

SAM: Wait up, wait up. You’re telling me this is the same man whose daughter got into a brawl with that Miami team’s mascot last year? The one who’s with that retired soccer player from Europe?

NICK: (clicks tongue) That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Sam. He’s Andrew Underwood. From Underwood Enterprises or Holdings or something like that. He owns stuff like real estate and corporations? You know that if it’s not tech no one really cares.

SAM: More like you don’t, but fair I guess. Real estate is not as exciting—unless it’s being sold by hot people in full glam, and unless I can peruse the properties from the comfort of my couch.

NICK: We like what we like. Thankfully, the Underwood family is just as deliciously layered. Like… a real-lifeSuccessionepisode you’re seeing unfold before your eyes. With the drama, the money, the orphan who happens to be an heiress, the secret past, and all the trauma.

SAM: Which reminds me that I should really reschedule my therapy session.

NICK: Do that, Sam. Therapy is crucial. But you should also stop sidetracking me. Because this family has issues, as I was telling you. It really is like they’re growing them on demand. Rich Daddy, for example: kept his origins a secret for decades. There’s this piece inTimemagazine where he admits being ashamed of coming from some tiny place in North Carolina, and letting everyone believe he was in fact from Miami.

SAM: Ew. That’s a big waving red flag.

NICK: And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. This newly discovered daughter, Josephine something-something, who he also kept under wraps for decades, is from—brace yourself—that same tiny place.

SAM: The plot thickens. A nostalgic rendezvous?

NICK: It seems. And it more than thickens because she… whoa. (laughs) I can’t even say it with a straight face. I swear, I’m not making it up.

SAM: Spill it. I spend way too much time on the internet to be shocked.

NICK: She’s a serial runner.

SAM: (disappointed sigh)

NICK: No, no. Wait. This girl runs on men. On grooms. Her fiancés. She gets engaged and abandons the dudes AT THE ALTAR. (pause) On their wedding day.

SAM: Wait, what? But how many are we talking about?

NICK: FOUR. For now.

SAM: (gasps, then laughs) Like that rom-com from ages ago?

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