Page 48 of Friends Who Fake It

“Helebore? As in, the flower?”

“Apparently. They asked if we wanted to grab dinner with them.”

“Oh.” Her heart fluttered.

“I thought it would be better to break up after that.”

Her mind raced. “Why?”

“For one thing, it saves me from having to act like a heartbroken, recently-dumped ex-boyfriend,” he said, his tone laced with mirth, as though he was amused by this. Amused! Indignation fired through her. How could he be so casual, after everything they’d shared?

You deserve better.

She’d thought he was what she deserved. That he was the sum total of everything she wanted and needed, but at the end of the day, what Willow cared about and craved most of all was true love. She’d never get that from Francesco.

“I wouldn’t ask, normally, but with everyone already worried about Raf, it would be good to not add to their burden.”

She closed her eyes, wondering if he knew how much that was pressing on one of her buttons. Because sheowedhim this, after everything he’d done to help her out of a jam. Even though seeing him again felt like the sum total of everything she wanted, and, at the same time, a total torture she wished she could avoid.

“Dinner’s too much,” she muttered, shaking her head, then realizing she was admitting more than she wanted. “I’ve got a big week. I’d prefer to keep it quick and easy. How about a drink somewhere after work, then you three can go to dinner?”

A long pause greeted that, before he agreed. “I’ll text you details. Any nights that don’t work for you?”

She closed her eyes on a wave of tension. “No.”

“Great. Leave it with me. I guess I’ll see you soon.”

His ambivalence was the final nail in the coffin of her hopes.

He’d only flown back to London a day before Rocco had called and suggested dinner, and a part of Francesco had wanted to lie and say he was still in New York with Raf. But the way their family grapevine worked, the truth would come out anyway, and he’d be left having to explain why he’d wanted to avoid going on a dinner date with his loved up brother and sister-in-law, and his apparent girlfriend.

It was easier to just capitulate.

Except, he’d been making actual progress in the whole forgetting Willow stakes. He’d even been out at one of his usual bars, the night she’d called. Okay, he hadn’t actually spoken to another woman—hadn’t really been interested in that—but it was a step forward to get back into his usual rhythms. Proof that he hadn’t been as unravelled by their time together as he’d started to fear. And he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that seeing her name come up on his screen hadn’t super charged his whole body like some kind of dump of electricity.

Now, he just had to wait, another six days, and he’d see her again, for one last fake-date night. He refused to acknowledge just how much he didn’t want to wait…

They’d agreed to meet in the little underground bar just off Oxford Street at six, and Willow had deliberately faffed about, meaning it was a quarter past when she strode in wearing a thick woollen coat over the top of her slinky dress and heels. She saw them the second she entered the bar, despite how busy it was, and stopped walking altogether, taking a second just to stare at Francesco, as if by looking at him she could steel herself to get through this. But the truth was, just seeing him again sent her whole body into a state of turmoil; she could hardly move, much less trust herself to speak.

They should have met up before this. They should have spent some time together, to get beyond any butterflies and awkwardness. Except, those would all be on Willow’s side.Shewas the one with the butterflies, who felt awkward. Who realized, and accepted, that she was fully and completely in love with this man, who’d never love her back. Who wanted to be her friend, full stop.

She moved slightly, and whether it was that movement or simply a coincidence, but Francesco glanced across the bar at that moment, towards the door, and his eyes glanced across her, at first, before tearing back, like they were pulled by a magnetic force. They stared at each other for what felt like a very long time to Willow, before he stood and started to move towards her, and the heart that had been in her throat skidded back into her chest but pounded with such urgency she wondered if it was actually dangerous.

He cut through the crowd with ease, coming to stand toe to toe with her, his eyes probing hers for a beat before he dropped his head and brushed his lips over hers, so Willow’s pulse began to rival her heart, in terms of sound.

“Sorry I’m late,” she murmured, because she felt like she needed to say something.

“No big deal. You ready?”

No. She wasn’t. And at the same time, there was nowhere else she wanted to be. It made everything more complicated by a mile, but the thought of another hour with Francesco was suddenly like a gift. She knew she’d take these breadcrumbs and then, in a few days’ time, they could end it, as they’d agreed.

He reached down and laced their fingers together; she didn’t want to think about how perfect that felt.

As they approached the booth, Rocco stood, followed by Maddie.

“So good to see you again,” Maddie grinned in her broad New York accent.

“How were the flowers?” Willow asked, sliding in across from Maddie.

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