Page 42 of A Simple Reminder

Yesterday messed with my head. From the casual pizza outing—which was definitely not a date, I have to stop romanticizing it—to the way the evening ended.

God, it felt so natural, just like it had once before. Why did he have to offer to take me to eat, and not only that, he had to go and ruin the night by pressing me about Jared. The thoughts loop endlessly in my mind as I sit in the back of the taxi on my way toOpulent Haven. The way Liam questioned me last night, the way he looked at me—it’s all I’ve been able to think about. There was an edge in his voice, an intensity in his eyes, especially as he spotted the tattoo behind my ear as if recalling an old memory. I had forgotten to cover it that morning. I usually prefer to keep my tattoos covered at work, but now, everything feels exposed.

A part of me wants to scream that Jared means nothing and that I’m past what he did. But I can’t because if I did, what would I gain? What would I prove?

I glance at the time on my phone—nine fifteen a.m. Damn it. I’m already fifteen minutes late, and the traffic isn’t moving. I’m usually never late. I can’t stand it, my dad used to say,“If you’re on time, you’re already late.”With Liam back, messing with my head and my whole being, I’m late for the second time in years.

The driver taps the wheel impatiently as if that’ll magically clear the street ahead. But this is New York—there’s no magic that can fix this mess.

Ugh! Who in their right mind schedules a meeting at nine a.m. during rush hour? Liam, of course.

I throw a quick glance at the traffic outside and make a decision. “Stop here!” I tell the driver, already digging through my bag for cash.

The cab lurches to a stop, and I shove a few bills into the driver’s hand before jumping out onto the sidewalk. It’s warmer than usual this morning, but I barely notice it. I’m too focused on getting to that meeting, on not giving Liam the satisfaction of seeing me flustered.

I start running, my heels clacking loudly against the pavement, each step a reminder of my terrible decision. Why did I choose heels? And not just any heels—Manolos. Beautiful, yes, but completely impractical. The pointed toes pinch with every stride, and the stiletto heels threaten to twist my ankle at any moment. Who in their right mind thinks luxury footwear is designed for anything but standing still? The pavement feels uneven beneath me, and my frustration bubbles over. With every painful step, I’m cursing myself, the shoes, and the situation.

Running used to be part of my daily routine, back when I actually had time for things like morning jogs and more than one Pilates session a week. I was the type to get in a five-mile run before breakfast, thriving on the discipline it brought to my life. But it’s been a while, and now I’m juggling a stuffed handbag in one hand and two cups of coffee in the other, sprinting down the street. This is hardly the cardio I’m used to, and far from the control I like to exert over my schedule. The thoughts barely register before I’m dodging pedestrians, trying not to spill the scalding liquid all over myself.

The first splatter hits my white blouse. “For fuck’s sake,” I curse under my breath, quickening my pace as the hot coffee sears my skin. The sting makes me grit my teeth, and I let out a string of curses loud enough to turn a few heads. But I don’t care. I don’t have the time.

All I can think about is Liam waiting atOpulent Haven, probably checking his watch and growing more impatient by the second. The last thing I want is a repeat of the tension from the other day—his clipped tone and sharp looks that left me feeling…too many things I don’t want to unpack.

I round the corner, and the sign for the boutique comes into view—I'm almost there. As I approach, I catch sight of Liam. His back is to me, arms animatedly gesturing as if he's deep in explanation with the man in front of him. My heart pounds even harder, not just from the run but also from the sudden apprehension of facing him.

This is just embarrassing. I feel like dying.

I push harder, the coffee sloshing out of the cups, my shoes slipping slightly on the pavement. But I won't stop. Not until I’m standing in front of him, ready to work this meeting. Whatever he needs me to do.

I’m sweaty, holding two empty coffee cups that I desperately want to throw at something. My breath comes in ragged gasps, and I’m about to curse Liam for choosing this place when I spot him near the door, speaking with a man who looks like he’s ready to lock up.

“I’m here! I’m here!” I gasp.

Liam turns to face me with a mischievous grin. “Look, here she finally is—my beautiful fiancée,” he announces, the words sliding off his tongue like he’s said them a thousand times before.

My heart stutters in my chest, and I stop in my tracks, my breath completely gone for reasons that have nothing to do with my bad stamina.Fiancée. I’m sorry. What?

Before I can react, he leans in, his lips brushing my ear as he whispers, “Play along,” before pressing a warm, lingering kiss to my cheek.

I barely have time to process his words or the way his touch sends shivers down my entire body, before the man in charge looks between us, clearly skeptical. “Like I told you, sir, we usually open at ten-thirty. I told you we’d only have time for a twenty-minute spot this morning.”

Liam doesn’t miss a beat. “I know, but my beautiful fiancée has traveled all the way from London,” he says, his voice full of mock sincerity. London? I barely keep my expression neutral as he continues. “She’s been talking about your boutique for weeks. Please don’t make me the man who disappoints her. I can’t stand to see her upset.”

He touches my cheek softly, his fingers lingering just a little too long, and I feel my heart race in response. What is going on?

The man hesitates, clearly torn between his duties and whatever act Liam is pulling. I have to do something—anything—to keep this going.

Channeling every British movie I’ve ever seen, I give the man what I hope is a convincing smile. “Please, sir, it would be positively marvellous if we could simply have a brief look around.” I say, laying on an awful thick accent. Did I just say,‘positively marvellous’.I mentally cringe, but Liam chuckles softly beside me.

The man crumbles. “Oh, alright,” he sighs, “but you’ll have to be quick.”

“Thank you, you’re an absolute gem,” Liam says overly theatrically, guiding me forward with his arm still draped over my shoulder. We follow the man deeper into the gallery, Liam’s hand resting gently on my shoulder, giving a light squeeze as we walk.

“Positively marvellous? Really?” he murmurs with a smirk once we’re out of earshot.

“I don’t know. You’re the one who made me British,” I hiss back, trying to maintain my composure.

“I just said you flew in from London. I never made you British.”

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