Page 18 of Friends Who Fake It

“You are the only person, besides my brothers and cousins, who’s seen me so drunk I almost passed out. I trust you with my life. Is it wrong to ask a personal question?”

Her heart did a funny little skip. He raised a valid point—he’d well and truly let down his guard with her. And in a way, she’d done the same with him, by asking him to do this for her. While he knew her family, in that tenuous, family friend kind of way, he was really seeing behind the veil now, by being squarely placed beside her, as part of her experience of the whole messed up thing.

“There were…a few reasons, I suppose,” she said, a little unevenly, frowning as she tried to put into words what had led to their separation. “We have different friends, different lives, in many ways. Ultimately, he found it hard to get over our comparative financial circumstances.” Her gaze dropped to the table, because it was such a stupid reason to have argued. “He worked hard, but money was always tight. If we wanted to do something—go on a holiday, or out anywhere nice for a meal, I would want to pay. He hated that.” She massaged her lower lip with her teeth. “It’s infuriating.”

Francesco nodded slowly.

“For years, society has had this expectation that rich guys can marry whomever they want, regardless of finances or social status or whatever, why doesn’t that work in reverse?”

“I suppose it depends on the couple,” he said thoughtfully. “There are probably a lot of couples who would make it work regardless.”

It was like a hammer blow to her sense of reality, because that was such a simple thing to say, and worse, he was right. She focused her eyes on the view from the window, because it was too hard to look at Francesco, to feel his gaze on her, to have him see the recognition slowly unfolding through her. “You think we didn’t love each other enough?”

“I think it’s an insufficient reason to end a relationship, if it otherwise works.”

“But then, you’re no expert in this territory,” she said defensively, flitting a glance at him and quickly softening the words with a tight smile that hurt to paste across her face. “What’s the longest relationship you’ve ever had? A week?”

His gaze narrowed, his inspection of her all the more intense now. “I don’t need personal experience to see this situation clearly.”

Didn’t he understand what he was doing to her? What he was saying?

All her life, Willow had felt not good enough. Not good enough for anyone, not good enough to love. Every ounce of her self-esteem had been conditional—she’d sought Meredith’s impossible-to-get approval as though it were her source of oxygen. Deep down, Willow was still that same little girl who just desperately wanted to be loved.

And Tom had loved her.

At least, Willow had believed he loved her, and for the first time in her life, she’d felt…something different. Wanted. Valued. Needed.

Yet here was Francesco, sitting across from her and casually telling her that she’d imagined it all. That Tom hadn’t really loved her.

With another hammer blow of truth, she recognized that maybe her grief over losing Tom was less about the man and more about what she’d thought their relationship represented?

She finished her coffee and replaced the cup. “We should go,” she murmured, trying to catch the threads of their earlier, laid-back tone. “My hair isn’t going to do itself, you know.”

ChapterFive

ON THE DRIVE INTO town, they’d shared a companionable, thoughtful silence. On the drive back to the mansion, it was less companionable, and considerably pricklier. At least, it felt that way to Willow.

Her mind kept ticking over his comments, his obvious perception of her relationship with Tom, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was right. Which only made her angrier. It wasn’t Francesco’s fault. In fact, the part of her brain that was capable of rational, objective thought could even see that as a friend, he had a sort of obligation to be brutally honest with her about what he saw in their relationship.

But his comments had come out of nowhere, slamming into her like a freight train. It probably had more to do with Meredith, and how wearing Willow found spending time with her stepmother. While she’d developed a sort of game to handle Meredith’s judgmental attitudes, it hadn’t really helped with the hurt. It had made it, on some level, more bearable, but at the end of the day, she had to live with the fact that she wasn’t—and never would be—accepted by the other woman. And her father didn’t care.

As they approached the wrought iron gates to her family’s estate, Francesco slowed down and pulled his car to the side of the road, then angled his broad, man-mountain body to face her. He took up so much of the car, suddenly she found it hard to breathe.

“Willow.” His voice was low and raspy, stern, like he was going to reprimand her. “Look at me.”

She dug her teeth into her lower lip, keeping her gaze belligerently ahead. “Why?”

“You’re angry. Or upset.”

She chewed her lip harder.

“And now you’re not even looking at me.”

She huffed out a breath then turned to face him. And instantly regretted it. He was close. Or maybe it was just that the car was so small-seeming. She couldn’t say. But separated by only a few inches, with his startlingly beautiful eyes, all darkly rimmed and perceptive, his angular face, and full, sweeping mouth, her stomach dropped right down to her toes.

“What is it?” he pushed, his expression neutral, even as his eyes scanned her.

What could she say to that? Where could she even begin? “Nothing. I’m fine.”

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