Page 27 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“Cool it,” she orders. “Let me go. The moment is over.”
As I release her, she stumbles slightly on an ornate rug near the auction tables. I’m no goalie, but I have the reflexes of a pro athlete. I’m there instantly, crouching down, hugging her knees to my stomach and steadying her. My fingers brush against the bare skin at her ankle, and she goes perfectly still.
Interesting. Her response is… no response.
“You’re good,” I say, helping set her right.
Flashbulbs pop around us, capturing the moment. Ah yeah, our constant surveyors. The reason we’re here. Juliet and I are hard-launching our engagement.
“It better not end up as a meme,” she mutters.
“Too late, honey.“
“You’re the worst.”
I arch a brow playfully. She tries to walk away, probably to escape to the bathroom or find Ivy again. But I follow her, not ready to let the moment go. Not tonight.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Away from you.”
“That’s not very convincing fiancée behavior.”
“Good thing I’m not actually your fiancée.”
Ouch. The reminder stings more than it should. For the rest of the night, I play it cool. I hang back, let Juliet talk to Jessa, watch Ivy dominate a sizeable chunk of her time. When it’s time to go, I help her into her coat and walk her out.
On the way home, she barely says a word. Neither do I. But when she rubs her thumb across her ring like it means something, I wonder if maybe tonight worked a little too well.
Back at the condo, Juliet collapses on the couch with a groan. “I’m dead. Literally dead. And my feet are screaming.”
I toss my keys in the bowl by the door. “Take off those torture devices you call shoes.”
She straightens, prim now that we’re alone. “No thanks. I’d rather die.”
“You plan to be uncomfortable in your own home?”
“This isn’t my home,” she retorts. “It’s a rental agreement until we break up.”
That one lands harder than I expected. I head for the fridge, keeping my voice cool to mask the sting. “Suit yourself. I’m making this my castle.”
I tell myself the public launch of our fake romance went well. She remained unflinching under pressure, tightly wound but professional. But I can’t help feeling a flicker of respect when her eyes drift over me and her cheeks heat despite her best efforts.
The world is watching The Chainsaw with his so-called fiancée now. The pressure’s on to make this believable.
But lying here in the dark, listening to her move around in her room, I’m wondering if I’ve already bitten off more than I can chew.
Chapter7
Juliet
I’m working at the arena for the first time today, and it feels surreal. The title of Public Relations Coordinator has a beautiful ring to it. This morning I went upstairs and filled out more paperwork, got my official team ID badge, and now I’m here watching practice like I actually belong. I’m in full work mode. Heels, red lipstick, a short black skirt, and a blazer so sharp it could cut. The armor I wear when I need to feel untouchable.
Is it working? Not really.
I pull out my phone and record a bit of the practice, zooming in on my incredibly sweaty and somehow enticing fake fiancé. He keeps taking his helmet off and shaking his too-long hair out, damp pieces clinging to his neck in a way that makes me too aware of his hotness.
He glances at me and smirks. It makes me blush. Damn him.
