Page 95 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
"Marina fell," Grayson says flatly.
"What? How?"
"Not sure." He glances at me—not accusingly, but as if asking silently for my version.
"I'm not sure myself," I say. "One minute she was standing here and we were talking, and she seemed perfectly fine. Then she walked past me, and the next moment she moaned, grabbed her stomach, and collapsed. I don't know how the hell it happened—but I didn't push her."
"Wow. That's wild. I sure missed a lot." Steph shrugs, entirely unbothered. "Anyway, did Martha say if there's more shrimp?"
"No," Grayson says, "but you can check the kitchen."
"Perfect." She disappears again without a care in the world.
I watch her go. Am I the only one noticing how oddly she's acting? She has way too much energy for someone who just heard a pregnant woman fall.
Despite Grayson's calm, I can't shake my unease. The scene replays in my head as we settle into the back of his Bentley and pull away from the house.
"I can hear you thinking about it," Grayson says, amusement in his tone.
"Because I can't stop," I admit. "It's weird how she phrased it, right? Like she was implying something?"
He shrugs. "Do you think that's what she meant? She didn't sound sure herself."
"Yeah, but the way she said it—‘if she says she didn't push me, then she didn't'—that's not a denial. It's a setup. Like she's pretending to defend me to make herself look noble."
I pause, doubt flickering. "Or maybe I'm overthinking it. Maybe I'm just pissed about the way she was laughing with you."
He smirks. "Jealous, huh?"
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." His grin widens. "The only reason I said it was nice to see her again was to get a rise out of George. Worked like a charm, too. You should've seen his face."
"I saw yours," I mutter.
He chuckles. "And yours. You looked ready to bite my head off."
"I wasn't jealous," I lie.
"Sure you weren't."
I glare at him, which only makes him laugh harder.
"What?" he says innocently. "Jealousy isn't a bad thing. If my parents didn't believe our relationship before, they probably do now."
"So you intentionally riled me up just to sell the act?"
"No, I riled you up because I like seeing you riled up. Everything else is a bonus."
I narrow my eyes, tilting my head in mock sweetness. "Just wait till we get home. Then we'll see who's riled up."
The next day starts with a bang.
I head to the office early, and as I park my Lexus, I notice an unusual number of cars and vans lined up along the street. People with cameras and clipboards are milling around. Since my building's next to a theater, I assume the paparazzi are waiting for some actor—maybe a premiere, a signing, something glamorous and far removed from me.
But the moment I step onto the front steps, the first flash goes off—then another, and another—and it hits me that they're not here for an actor.
They're here for me.
