Page 3 of Fake Dating Adrian Hunter
The schedule is planned down to the minute with events I’m required to attend highlighted in yellow, all leading up to the wedding at the end of the week. I don’t know why I’m surprised at the attention to detail. When we were kids, Tory’s favorite hobby was organization. I guess nothing has changed.
I flop back onto the daybed as soon as Tory leaves my bungalow.
Ten minutes pass.
Twenty.
My luggage still hasn’t arrived.
I make a call to the lobby, but no one answers. I’ve got thousands of dollars of clothes in those suitcases. Are they just lying in a pile in the lobby?
Five minutes later, I make another call, and there’s still no answer. I begin thumbing a text to my two bodyguards hanging out in the next bungalow over, the ones who Tory gave strict instructions are meant to be lying low this week and pretending like they don’t exist unless I’m placed in a life-or-death situation. The text goes something like this:Help! This is totally a life-or-death situation. My luggage hasn’t arrived, and I can’t leave the safety of my bungalow in case I run into Adrian. Please bring my bags to me and I’ll give you both a pay raise.
I delete the message before sending, hating the power Adrian already holds over me. If I cave in and hide from him, he wins by default.
A further twenty minutes pass and I’m still in my bungalow, knees bouncing as I rock back and forth on the bathtub rim, psyching myself up to leave my bungalow. I’m a despicable excuse for a woman. Months of mental preparation have all flown out the window and I’m a ball of anxiety over this man that I’ve spent my entire life either loving or hating.
There’s only one thing that snaps me out of this funk.
My babies.
And when I saybabies, I’m referring to my beautiful clothes that are sitting out in the open, alone and afraid, vulnerable to being kidnapped. And besides, I am Verena fucking Valentine. Who the hell is Adrian? Some nobody who peaked in high school.
I puff up my long, dark curls, refresh my makeup, and push up my breasts. After a day in transit, I’m not in my finest form. But I wore this uncomfortable yet magnificent dress in preparation for the slightest chance that Adrian would see me arriving at the resort. There’s no way I’m letting him witness me in anything other than a stunning outfit—designed by me, obviously. The dress is short and floral with real-life roses adorning the bodice. Practical? Not at all. The roses will be dead within a day. But you don’t get anywhere in the fashion industry by playing it safe. My stilettos are a pain in the ass too, but this situation is worth sacrificing comfort.
After a five-minute walk through the resort where I harness my best Kendall Jenner catwalk strut for Adrian precautions, I arrive at the lobby, finding a group of paramedics. I officially feel bad for complaining about my luggage. Resort staff are gathered by a stretcher, peering down at one of their colleagues.
“I’m fine,” the sick staff member says, pale as anything in the stretcher. I lose count of how many times he repeats himself.
“You collapsed,” a paramedic tells him. “Better to be safe than sorry.”
That eases my guilt a little. No one is seriously harmed. And thank God Adrian is not here.
I scan the lobby for my luggage. As with everything else at this resort, I’m standing in pure luxury. There’s a coastal theme shared among each building. It’s an open lobby with no walls, only columns and a thatched roof. And there, across the lobby, are my babies. Given the current health emergency among staff, surely I can take charge and wheel my own luggage back to my bungalow? I don’t want to be a burden to anyone. But seven suitcases? I’ll need to make a few trips.
I attempt to position the first suitcase upright so that it’s on its wheels. The suitcase is heavy, though, and I strain every muscle in my back as I try to lift it. After a series of unflattering grunts and swear words, not to mention the devastating number of petals that have fallen off my dress, I go stumbling backward, landing flat on my ass. I’m quick to my feet, hot with embarrassment as I straighten my dress and look around. Thankfully, no one notices me. It would appear everyone is still consumed with the paramedics. With more caution, I move onto the next suitcase, and crap, this one is heavier.
I’m bending over—tugging at the handles, pretty sure my dress is about to ride up my ass and reveal my G-string—when I hear a deep voice say my name.
My eyes shoot open. I know that voice. It’s ingrained in my memory and will remain there for the rest of eternity.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.Not like this.
Adrian Hunter is not meant to see me for the first time with my ass sticking in the air and me sweating over luggage. I’m meant to look hot in a bikini, laughing in the distance with a bunch of sexy men chatting me up by the pool. He’s meant to think,Fuck, why was I such a dick to Verena all those years ago?
Bracing myself with a deep breath, I stand tall and turn to face Adrian.
And wow, this is bad. This is one hundred times worse than I anticipated. Coming into this week, I thought I prepared myself well for our reunion. I memorized a list of amazing comebacks to all of his rude comments that are sure to fly my way. I designed a flawless wardrobe and have been hitting the treadmill harder than usual. But I forgot to prepare myself for the “Adrian charm.”
It’s true what they say about men getting better with age. Adrian is so beautiful that part of me thinks he might be Satan. No one can look this good without selling their soul to the devil and then murdering the bastard to become his successor.
Adrian is taller than I remember, and his shoulders have filled out. Either he runs daily or spends serious time in the gym. I mean, look at those muscles poking through his shirt.Hot damn.
My fingers tingle with the urge to twist the dark lock of hair hanging over his eyes. The thought must be written all over my face because the next moment, Adrian tucks the stray hair back. Now he’s smiling at me. No dark glint of malice is in his eyes. Just a pure, genuine smile. The sight of him looking at me like this is a punch in the stomach, reminding me of all the good times we shared. If it weren’t for all the bad blood between us, I swear I could fall in love with Adrian all over again.
Oh, fuck.
ChapterTwo
