Page 23 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Too bad this is all fake. And for a guy that’s probably my worst fucking enemy.
Tomorrow, we'll go to our first charity event as a couple. We'll smile for the cameras and hold hands and pretend we're the next great love story of the NHL. I'll wear something appropriately fiancée-ish. He'll clean up nice in a suit that probably costs more than my rent. And we'll convince everyone that the Chainsaw has been tamed by love.
The thing is, Hunter has always been good at getting under my skin. Even in college, when we barely spoke except to argue, he had this way of looking at me like he could see right through whatever mask I was wearing. Like he knew something about me that I didn't want him to know.
And now I'm going to be living with him for five months. Sleeping down the hall from him. Kissing him in front of the cameras. Pretending to be in love with him. Acting like the woman who tamed the beast and lived to tell about it.
Picking up a purple satin pillow, I cover my face and moan my pain into it. This is going to be a tough road, no matter how I’ve managed to make the guest room my own.
Chapter6
Hunter
God damn. I’d rather take a puck to the teeth than walk into this ballroom.
Before I step through the hotel ballroom doors, I’m dreading this gala. Fake smiles, forced chatter, media flashbulbs. Nothing about tonight feels real.
But by far the worst thing about tonight is my fake fiancée. Juliet grips my arm, looking like a cool, collected, confident woman. Sky high heels. Raven hair bobbing around her shoulders, styled to emphasize her curls. Emerald dress poured over her curves, bare shoulders catching the lights from the hotel entrance, lipstick dark and dangerous. With her slightly olive skin, the woman looks devastating in jewel tones.
Juliet grips my arm like she owns me, a dangerous glint in her eye. A huge, sparkling ring on that finger. She’s trouble wrapped in silk.
“Can you pose for me?” She holds up her phone, angling it just so to snap a photo. She frowns. “Oh my god. Come on. Pretend I’m the love of your life.”
I try not to choke. Easing my arm around Juliet, I try not to look like I want to strangle her. The camera flashes a few times, with Juliet adjusting to make each photo something new. Her hand comes to rest on my chest, her engagement ring glinting in the lights. She leans her head back a little and I instinctively cup her lower back to keep her standing upright.
Our bodies press together in a way that alarms me. I want nothing more than to take Juliet’s shoulders, give her a shake, and put distance between us. What is the saying? Good fences make good neighbors?
I would prefer it if the little vixen moved to the damn moon.
She heaves a sigh. “I’m giving this everything I’ve got, Huxley. Do something better with your face.”
I roll my eyes and then give her phone the same expression I give the camera at a sponsored photoshoot. No matter what I’m selling, I want to give the viewer a sense of debonair mystery. Juliet snaps more pictures, moving a little each time, and then looks at her phone.
“Oh my god.” She shows me the last one. I look stiff and uncomfortable, my eyes narrowed, my head tilted as if I am trying to figure out where a foul smell is coming from. She giggles. “As expected, you’re terrible at faking this.”
“I think that speaks volumes about what kind of person I am.”
She giggles again, the sound impish. “You keep telling yourself that, Hux.”
I like the sound of my name on her lips. Ryan warned me earlier, “You don’t have to like a plan, you only have to survive it.” He was talking about something else, but I would do well to remember it and bite my damn tongue.
Juliet flutters her long, thick lashes. “Are you ready for this, honey?”
“Not even remotely, darling,” I fire back.
She grins and tightens her grip on my arm. “Perfect.”
She drags me forward. I exhale like I’m a warrior seeking the precise focus he needs to head into battle. My pulse’s already climbing, and we haven’t even crossed the threshold.
She always paints her lips the same deep red. Too precise, too deliberate. I’ve always hated that lipstick. It screams, look at me in a way that sets my teeth on edge.
I’m looking. Every man is looking.
My jaw ticks. I tell myself it’s not jealousy, just annoyance. She’s playing a part. That’s all this is.
But when she bends toward the camera later, touching my arm and smiling with that perfect mouth, all I can think about is how that lipstick’s going to end up on someone else’s collar if she keeps tempting the wrong people. The thought makes me want to break something.
I recover by needling her. “Didn’t know you owned anything that wasn’t stitched up to your throat.”
