Page 14 of Fake Engaged to the Enemy

“Right,” George agrees.

He turns to me and nods toward the door. “You want to go for a walk along the beach so we can figure this out?”’

I hesitate but nod.

I’ve already agreed. It feels too late to back out now and admit that I don’t know what I’m doing.

Grandma smiles, looking pleased with herself. I chew my lip as I head down from the house next to George.

The sun blazes overhead, blinding me off the water. I squint at the hot sand that sucks my shoes into it.

“Ugh, I’m going to lose my feet,” I groan as sand gets into my shoes.

I kick them off and hurry, wincing, to the edge of the water. The ocean is cool against my hot feet. I walk in the lapping waves, sighing.

“Better?” George asks.

He’s taken his shoes off, too. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, showing off his muscular forearms.

The sun suddenly feels much hotter. I gulp and wade out to my knees, ignoring the way the water soaks through my pants.

George stays ankle-deep.

“Last Christmas,” I say. “When I came to Sandburrow to be with my grandma. You came over regularly to help out with things. We can say that’s when we reconnected.”

“And you came back so we can start wedding planning,” George says. “The timing of the rumors is a complete coincidence.”

Relief washes over me. He gets it. Yes, that is the best way to address this. Act as though the rumors aren’t even of note to us.

“There’s just one thing,” George says as we come to the series of rocks that form the tidal pools.

“What?” I climb over the first rock and gaze into the pool. The little creatures inside scramble around.

A sand dollar swims from one side to the other.

“I need to know the real reason for you coming to Sandburrow,” he says.

I wince and jump off the rock. “No, you don’t. That’s personal.”

George sits on the rock and folds his arm. He frowns at me, as though thinking deeply.

I avoid his eye, instead turning toward the ocean. The sun dips behind a cloud, dimming the blinding light.

Looking out at the waves that continually roll toward the shore, I can’t help but think it’s a metaphor.

It seems like I’ve been working forever in my career. Always adding more work, never letting myself rest.

Now I’m like a wave breaking against the shore. I’ve hit an unmovable object and now I’m left slowly ebbing away, to where I don’t know.

It’s so morose that it makes me snicker.

“Something’s funny?” George asks.

I turn to him. “I am. Or rather, I’m dramatic. But you don’t need to know the real reason I’m here, other than it’s because of the rumors. I’m trying to lay low until everything blows over. Now. Where should the wedding be? I think just on the beach next to Grandma’s place.”

“Small and intimate,” George agrees. “Family and friends only.”

“Your parents and my grandmother only,” I argue.

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