Page 117 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
I'm an optimist about most things, but when it comes to relationships, I'm a realist. I don't believe in love at first sight or in instant love stories. Lust, yes. But real love takes time. To love someone truly, you have to know them—really know them—inside and out.
Some might call that jaded, but it's kept me from plenty of heartbreak.
Real life isn't a movie. Sex isn't love. Even romance isn't love. Love is something deeper, something that endures and grows.
Then again… why would he give up his family and his career for sex or romance?
He wouldn't. He's too smart for that. Besides, he's handsome and rich—he could have all the casual sex or romantic flings he wanted.
So what else could this be? Maybe it's some elaborate plan to make his parents accept me.
But if that's the case, he's taking it too far.
His phone has been buzzing since we left, but he hasn't answered. He just set it to vibrate and slid it into his jacket pocket. Then—immediately—he reached for my hand again, like he'd missed it.
Together we sit cocooned in our silence, wrapped in the low, luxurious hum of the Bentley, the city lights flickering past like fragments of emotion I can't quite name.
Finally, we arrive.
Instead of heading into the basement garage, our driver Raul pulls up outside the building. Grayson steps out before Raul can open the door, then comes around to help me. His hand is warm and firm as he helps me to my feet. Together we walk up the steps as the Bentley glides away behind us.
"How's it going, Alvaro?" Grayson greets the doorman.
"Can't complain." Alvaro grins, but there's something in his eyes—a flicker of curiosity, maybe even understanding.
Grayson hands him a few hundred-dollar bills. "If my family comes by, tell them I'm not here. Say you think we went to my place in Upper Saddle River, New Jersey."
"Okay, sir. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Grayson nods and pats his shoulder before we move on.
The elevator ride to his apartment feels endless. My heart is pounding, my palms are damp, and anticipation prickles under my skin. What's going to happen? What did he mean by I'll show you?
I'm running through every possible meaning when I realize I've squeezed his hand too tightly. He turns, smiling softly, almost tenderly.
"Relax," he murmurs. "No one's going to hurt you."
"I didn't think you would," I say breathlessly.
He swipes his keycard, and the door clicks open.
Once inside, he helps me out of my coat and hangs it neatly on the rack.
Then he turns back to me—slowly—his eyes locking on mine.
Instinct has me stepping back. The air feels charged, and I can't tell whether it's desire or fear that's stronger. The look in his eyes is so naked, so raw, it both thrills and terrifies me.
"Do you really not know how I feel about you?" he whispers. My back hits the cool wall as he steps closer, his body brushing mine. One arm braces against the wall beside my head, blocking any escape. "Do you not see the way I look at you? Do you notrealize how often I think about you? How it feels like I can't breathe when you're not home yet and I'm here, waiting for you?"
"I…" The word catches in my throat.
What is he saying? Why is he telling me this?
I want to believe he's exaggerating, or playing some new part—but there's nothing performative in his eyes. It's all honesty, raw and unfiltered.
And really, why would he lie? There's no audience anymore. No reason to pretend. Not here, not now.
Maybe, I think suddenly,we were never pretending at all.
