Page 2 of Friends Who Fake It

She typed the numbers in again and the lift immediately began to whoosh upwards. And up. And up. And up.

Of course, he was right at the top of this enormous building.

The doors pinged open and she stepped directly out into the foyer of Francesco’s penthouse apartment.

The décor from downstairs was echoed here, with the same overly masculine colour scheme, very modern and…impersonal. She frowned a little, then grimaced because a mirror had caught her unawares and she’d seen herself before she could look away.

From childhood, Willow had been raised to understand that outward appearances were incredibly important. Her stepmother had been almost alarmingly strict when it came to how Willow behaved, dressed, and styled her hair. Shoes were never to be scuffed, nails had to be neat and polished at all times, pantyhose were worn on even the hottest of days, clothes were never allowed to show lint or pilling, makeup was to be flawless andalwaysworn, even when just at home, for one never knew who might stop by.

These lessons had been hammered into Willow with as much regularity and severity as possible, so the sight of herself in such disarray caused a plummeting sense of failure to drop through her.

“Willow.” Francesco strode around the corner, a man she’d known for so long he somehow instantly managed to calm her fluttering nerves. His eyes roamed her trench coat before returning to her face, and heat flushed her cheeks, sending those same nerves into overdrive unexpectedly. What must he think of her, arriving in this state?

“My shoe broke,” she said, pointing down at the offensive item. “And I got splashed.”

He nodded slowly, coming towards her. He was wearing dark trousers and a white business shirt, tucked in but with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and the top button undone, so she couldn’t help but notice the tanned expanse of his throat, the slight hint of hair at the base of it.

“Well, if you’re wanting to borrow shoes or a coat from me, I think you’ll find we wear different sizes.”

She laughed, despite the ball of tension that was clogging her belly.

“That’s not it,” she said, a little caught off guard when Francesco closed the distance between them, put his hands under her elbows and drew her to him, placing a kiss on her cheeks.

But of course, that was a normal greeting. She was just too flustered.

“Hello,” he said, slightly teasing, one side of his lips lifting into a half-smile. It was so quintessentially Francesco. Such easy charm, easy confidence, easy good looks. The man had been born, Willow had long ago decided, with far too much ofeverything.He was smart, funny, and sexier than any man had a right to be—a fact he was clearly very well aware of, given that he seemed to operate a revolving door of very temporary girlfriends.

Which was something she could definitely use to her advantage, this weekend.

“Hi,” she said, taking a deep breath and trying to calm her nerves.

“Come in,” he offered, moving a hand to the small of her back and guiding her forwards.

“I love what you’ve done to the place,” she quipped, eyeing the apartment he’d moved into about six months earlier—an apartment she’d never been to before. “There’s so much of ‘you’ here.”

He slid her a sideways glance. “You don’t like it?”

She rolled her eyes. “I mean, it’s stunning, obviously. It’s just a little…impersonal.”

He looked around, as if hearing that for the first time. “Is it?”

“It’s incredible,” she insisted. “But can you actually just kick back and relax in this space?” she gestured to the living room, with its large, beige suede sofas and fur throws, the coffee table with its glass top, the lamps that were more art installation than function.

“I manage.”

“Okay,” she said, with a small lift of her shoulders. “Good. It doesn’t matter, anyway.” She fidgeted her hands in front of her for about two seconds—precisely the amount of time it took to channel her stepmother’s voice, scolding her for betraying nervousness. She pushed her hands down, flat by her sides.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Francesco observed, despite her efforts to exude calm non-concern.

“A drink would be great,” she muttered.

He nodded once, moving deeper into the living room, to a large shelf filled with alcohol and glasses, removing several at a time.

“What size shoe do you wear?”

She furrowed her brow. “A seven. Why?”

He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Erica?”

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