Page 138 of Between Hate and Desire

“Okay, one more,” she says after checking the photo.

We get back into position, and right before she clicks, she presses her soft lips to my cheek, surprising the shit out of me. But as quickly as it happens, then it’s over.

“Super cute.” She looks at the photo, then shuffles off me.

And now I need to sit here for a second.

I don’t know how long she plans to update her Instagram or pretend we’re married, but I continue to go along with it for her sake even though she knows my true feelings. At this point, I’m a pro at pushing them to the side to protect my own heart.

“First day back to work and going to miss myhoney pie,” she speaks as she types, then looks up at me and winks at the nickname she always hated. “Hashtag newlyweds, hashtag wifey, hashtag bae.”

I raise my brows at her ludicrous hashtags. Even though it’s all an act and she’s doing it for her parents’ benefit, she’s been posting pregnancy shots and anything baby and married life related. All of the clothes her mother bought, our rings, dinners she’s cooked, basically anything and everything. Part of me wonders if it’s overkill with all the posting because she wishes those things were for real—but with Brandon.

“Adorable, right?” She sticks her phone in my face and swipes her finger to show me she posted both pictures.

Fuck me. Doesn’t she know this is torture?

For the past month, we’ve acted as if that night never happened, so I plaster on a smile and reply, “Definitely.”

I clean up the kitchen while she hops in the shower. Once the dishes are cleared, and I wipe the counters, I walk down the hallway and hear Lennon singing. Pausing, I stand outside the door and listen.

It’s a new one today. Straining to hear the lyrics, I eventually recognize the song. Lennon flawlessly belts out the words to “I Hope You Dance.” As always, her voice captivates me in every way. She sounds so passionate and sweet, and I’ve come to love getting this front row seat every morning.

As Lennon sings about giving faith a fighting chance, I lean my forehead against the wood door and inhale a deep breath. I wish I could say how I want to fight for her, how I wish she’d fight for me, how it should’ve always been her and me—even though it feels wrong. I push all those feelings aside and ignore them, not allowing them to bring me to the dark side.

Willing myself to walk away, I go to my room and dress for work, hoping to get to the office early. I have plans to meet Mason and Liam during my lunch break and have a feeling it’s going to take the full hour. It’s been a while since we’ve hung out, and I haven’t told them the whole story on going to Utah with Lennon. I could only imagine what they’d say about it, and I didn’t need their bullshit attitudes while preparing for the trip, so I know it’s only a matter of time before it comes up in conversation.

“Hunter?” Lennon knocks on my door.

“Yeah?”

I’m buttoning up my shirt when she enters. The sight of her nearly takes my breath away. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, stockings, and a maternity tank. She bought it last week when I finally forced her to admit she needed new clothes, especially for work. Luckily, Sophie and Maddie dragged her to the mall, and then she reluctantly showed me everything once they got back. It was adorable the way she pouted about it, but honestly, she looks amazing. Maybe it makes me a sick son of a bitch, but she’s only gotten more gorgeous with her pregnancy.

Yeah, I’m going to hell.

Pregnant with my dead best friend’s baby.

Straight to hell.

“Which top?” Lennon asks, breaking me out of my trance. She holds up two shirts on hangers and puts each one over her body. “They both suck, so which one sucks less?”

Chuckling, I examine the almost identical patterned blouses and point at the one on the right.

“Really?” She narrows her eyes at it and frowns.

“No?” I stare pointedly at her and the way she’s looking at it. “I meantyourright.”

Lennon drops her shoulders and scowls. “Liar.”

“Stop worrying so much,” I tell her, closing the gap between us, then grabbing the shirt in question. “It’s pretty. Let me see it on.”

Sighing, she takes it, then slips it over her head. Her breasts rise, and I quickly avert my gaze until she’s dressed.

“Well?” She raises her arms, then lets them fall to her sides with a slap. “I look fat.”

“No,” I say slowly, knowing I need to tread lightly. She’s sensitive to her body’s changes, and while I’d love to be able to tell her she’s so fucking beautiful, I know I have to restrain myself. “You look pregnant.”

Lennon rolls her eyes, then marches to her room, and I follow. She stands in front of the full-length mirror, turning from side to side. Her bump is only visible in that shirt when she rests a hand over it.

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