Page 35 of Fake Engaged to the Enemy

“We can spy easier from inside,” Lynn tells me under her breath. She leads the way into the house, where she promptly turns and starts to peer through the blinds.

Feeling a little silly, I do the same.

“I hope that you and Catherine have some kissing practice lined up,” Lynn tells me as we spy. “That was some pretty weak action.”

“Only because we were getting photographed,” I protest.

Lynn smirks at me. “Is that so? My, my. So you have been practicing.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter,” I tease back.

But as we stand there, spying, something twinges in my chest. It was a stiff kiss. But what if it’s about more than the photographer?

“We kissed in our first year of high school,” I say softly. “It was a bad kiss, too. I tried to be what I thought was passionate and I ended up ruining it all. Is that when she stopped liking me?”

“What do you mean about stopped?”

I shrug. “In high school, I thought our competitions were more or less friendly. Then at graduation, she completely blew up at me. Called me heartless. So I just don’t know when things changed.”

Lynn lets the blinds shut again. “Look. A fake engagement is one thing. But it’s a risky move, blurring the line between real and fake.”

“I’m not blurring anything,” I protest.

She gives me a look that makes me doubt myself.

But I’m not blurring. I’m just wondering if my bad kissing ruined our relationship forever.

That’s not blurring the lines.

Right?

Chapter ten

Catherine

“Alright, let’s see what I have to work with.” I take a seat at the too-old computer in the museum.

I push back the monitor and set my laptop in its place. I hook up the mouse and keyboard as it’s booting up.

The museum has internet, thank goodness. I quickly log into the various social media accounts that Ginny has been running.

Well.

More like the pages she set up and then promptly ignored.

I have a sneaking suspicion that it was actually a summer intern who created the accounts. Ginny wasn’t old by any means, but she was so busy running around with everything that needed to be done around here she didn’t spend much time on the computer.

It doesn’t take me long to realize that this is more than a case of neglect.

The museum’s pages are a mess.

Even its website is terrible. It’s one page, showing the image of the museum. Location and open hours are splashed across it in the worst yellow font I’ve ever seen.

“It might be a little out of date,” Ginny chirps behind me.

She’s a tall, muscular woman. Right now, her hair is done in milkmaid braids and she carries what appears to be an anvil in her arms.

“A bit, yeah. Do you have anything in mind for me, or do I have free reign?” I ask her.

---