The fact that he bought me an emerald dress that fits perfectly
I step into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. Blue dress. Hair down. Makeup reapplied over the exhaustion I can’t quite hide. The dark circles under my eyes are doing their best to peek through my concealer.
I look like someone trying very hard to be worth loving.
I hate this. I hate that I’m standing in a resort bathroom making lists about whether a man I’m paying actually cares about me. I hate that I can’t tell the difference between real and performed anymore—in him or in myself. I hate that Preston broke something in me when he left, and now I’m so desperate for genuine connection that I’m projecting it onto a business arrangement.
“Get it together, Poppy Rose,” I mutter at my reflection. “You’re a professional. Act like one.”
My reflection doesn’t look convinced.
I spend fifteen minutes on my makeup, which is ten minutes more than necessary but gives me time to think. Or overthink. Same thing, really. By the time I emerge, I’ve constructed a narrative that I’m almost able to believe: Julian is doing his job, doing it well, and any emotions I’m reading into the situation are my own projection. He’s an excellent actor. That’s why I hired him. That’s what I’m paying for.
Case closed. Mystery solved. Time to perform.
When I step back into the sitting area, Julian is standing near the window with his back to the room. He’s changed, too—different shirt.
Is everything he owns tailored to fit him just right?
His phone is in his hand, and he slides it into his pocket like he’s hiding something.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Almost.”
He turns. Crosses the room toward me.
There’s something different in his face tonight. A tension I haven’t seen before. His jaw is set, and his eyes keep flicking toward the windows, the door, the shadows in the corners of the room.
“We need to practice,” he says.
“Practice what?”
“This.”
He reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger against my jaw—cool and precise and so gentle it makes my throat tight. The touch is exactly what a boyfriend would do. Affectionate. Intimate. The kind of casual contact that says we know each other.
But there’s nothing casual about the way my skin burns where he touched it.
“You’re still flinching when I touch you,” he observes.
“I’m not—”
I stop. Because I am. I definitely am. I felt my whole body go rigid the second his hand moved, and now I’m standing here like a board trying to pretend I didn’t.
“Okay, maybe a little.”
“We’re supposed to be in love.” He states matter-of-factly. “That requires comfort with physical proximity.”
“I know. I’m trying.”
“What are you afraid of?” he asks.
“I’m not afraid.”
