Page 31 of Friends Who Fake It

Necessary.

Important.

For days, she’d been distracted by the weekend with Francesco. What had happened with them was far from straight forward. She wanted it to be. She wanted to just be able to accept that they were friends who’d slept together, but the flipside to that was a yawning chasm of uncertainty.

Because going to Italy with him was suddenly the thing she wanted most in the world, and it shouldn’t have been.

There was Tom to consider. Tom to think about. Tom to crave. Who was supposed to be her future, her whole life. Tom who’d always made her feel at peace and calm.

Except tonight, it hadn’t.

Tonight, he’d arrived at the restaurant late and disheveled, and she’d beenannoyed.Annoyed that he hadn’t been able to make it on time, when they hadn’t seen each other for months. Annoyed that his shirt was untucked on one side and he had some kind of oil stain on his collar. Annoyed that he didn’t ask her a damned thing about her life, but rather launched into a breakdown of his, from what he’d eaten for breakfast that morning to an annoying call he’d received from a telemarketer that afternoon.

Had it always been like this?

Had she really thought this was how she wanted to spend the rest of her life?

The disloyal thought caught her truly unawares. She sat up straighter, reaching for her champagne, letting the liquid fizz and bubble all the way down, then taking another sip, and another, until her glass was drained.

Even then, Tom didn’t break his monologuing stride. Had he even noticed she’d pulled her phone from her bag? That she’d skolled her drink? Was he even noticing her?

Suddenly, she was irritated. Not just with him, but herself, too. With the amount of time she’d spent getting ready, looking forward to this. Annoyed with all the hopes she’d invested, that he would be everything she wanted. That she’d see him and it would all lock back into place again. That she’d find a way to break through his objections and get him to see that their different backgrounds really didn’t matter.

But the more he talked, the less certain she became. A waiter appeared and silently topped up her glass. Tom kept talking.

At her side, she was conscious of the buzzing of her handbag, her phone receiving another call. She sipped some more of her drink, and some more, then stood abruptly.

Finally, Tom broke off. “Willow? Is something the matter?”

“I—have a call. I’m sorry.” She brandished her bag as if he’d asked for evidence, but Tom didn’t need it. He shrugged and pushed his thumb to his mouth, worrying at the edge of his fingernail.

“No problem; take your time. I’ll be here.”

Her stomach lurched, and the uncertainty of her situation, of what she now wanted in life, started to flip and twist inside of her, so she stalked out of the restaurant before taking the call, because she wasn’t sure she could trust herself to keep a hold of her temper.

It wasn’t Francesco’s fault.

On the contrary, he’d done everything she’d asked of him—and then some. He’d been the perfect fake boyfriend, and an exceptional lover. So why was she so annoyed at him? Why was seeing Tom somehow stirring up a hornet’s nest of anger.

She stabbed the phone, took a deep breath, tried to control her rioting feelings.

“Francesco?”

Silence. Her heart twisted.

“Hello?” Impatience curdled the word.

“Willow.” She closed her eyes on a rush of need. His voice was deep and throaty. Familiar but far away, and almost like he’d been drinking. She swallowed past a strange thickness in her throat. A group of people walked by, talking and laughing, but she barely noticed.

“Is this a bad time?”

“Huh?” She opened her eyes, stared straight ahead.

“It sounds busy where you are.”

“Oh. I’m on the street.”

“Just hanging out?”

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