Page 2 of Fake Engaged to the Enemy

I knew she was coming back to Sandburrow; Lynn told me when Catherine first called her. But I had hoped that I wouldn’t spend much time around her for this exact reason.

I can’t recall the last time we talked without it turning snarky.

Catherine pinches her mouth. Even pissed off, she’s beautiful. “Then go on ahead. I’ll just walk.”

Lynn would give me hell if I made Catherine walk all the way to her house. Especially in those shoes. They were flats, but the dressy kind that weren’t made for walking.

I drop my arms to my sides. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped.”

She gives me a suspicious look. “I suppose I shouldn’t have been sarcastic.”

We eye each other for a moment, then Catherine nods.

“If you’re offering, I would like a ride to Grandma’s place. I’m going to be staying with her for a while. And if she ever found out that I refused a ride from George Callahan of all people…” Catherine shakes her head.

I have to laugh. “Oh, she’ll blame me. But my death will be on your hands.”

She tries to fight it, but those dimples flash with a smile.

The tension eases slightly between us.

“I’ll just grab my suitcase,” Catherine says, popping the trunk of the car.

I get it before she can. “Anything else?”

Catherine eyes the suitcase. “Um, I know that this is one of those ‘small-town men who have to do everything politeness things,’ but I’d rather you not touch my stuff.”

Her tone is wary, as though she’s worried I’ll take it the wrong way.

I put the suitcase down. “Just so you know, Lynn will get after us both if I don’t carry it into the house for you.”

Catherine carries her suitcase to the truck and secures it in the back. “I’ll deal with Grandma about that. I just don’t like people touching my things. It’s not personal.”

I shrug it off. It’s her prerogative.

She makes sure her car is locked before getting into the truck. The tension comes back in full force. Her hands twist in her lap as we drive.

The road to Lynn Hart’s beach house is one of the prettiest in Sandburrow.

We’re too far north for palm trees, but the birches cast shade over the golden-yellow beach. Stones, shells, and driftwood litter the space between sea and land.

“How are you doing?” I ask Catherine, trying to fill the silence.

Her shoulders tense. “Is that rhetorical or has the news not reached Sandburrow?”

I keep my eyes facing straight forward. “I wasn’t going to ask about that.”

“It’s not true. I’m not dating Crimson,” Catherine says emphatically.

The grim expression on her face speaks to something far worse.

What can I say to that? The rumors are certainly exploding everywhere. Few people in the world had even heard of Catherine Hart until this scandal came out.

Now her name is trending everywhere you look. It’s not right.

“You do work as a social media manager for him, right?” I ask cautiously.

Crimson is one of the highest-earning pop stars of our generation. I’ve never enjoyed his music. I prefer country music myself. The old stuff. Kenny Rodgers. Patsy Cline.

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