It’s almost excruciating.
Grayson exhales and rubs the back of his neck. “We... need to talk about earlier.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Okay.”
He gestures toward the living room. “Let’s go downstairs.”
I follow him without another word, unsure about which of the thousand routes this conversation could go. He could fire me for what happened yesterday, could kiss me again, could tell me he fucked up deciding to be my fictitious boyfriend and now I need to fix that mess. The options are endless.
I perch on one end of the sectional while he takes the armchair across from me like we’re conducting business and aren’t just two people alone in his house at almost eight in the evening.
He braces his forearms on his thighs and looks at me directly. “I need more context.”
My stomach twists. “About?”
“The couple from the restaurant earlier.” His jaw shifts once. “Who were they?"
“Oh,” I say, my throat closing in immediately. “That was, uh, my... my ex. We broke up almost three months ago.”
His brows lift. “Three months ago?”
I nod. I can see the gears shifting in his head.
“And he’s engaged.” Not a question.
I run my tongue over my front teeth, unable to form words to properly express my surprise and frustration over that tidbit of information. I nod.
“Christ.”
“Aaron and I were together for, like, three years. Lived together. He…” I swallow. “He cheated. With Sarah. The woman he was with earlier. Based on the ring, I’m guessing it started earlier than he admitted to.”
Something hard flashes through Grayson’s expression. “That makes the boyfriend comment a lot more understandable,” he says. "Assuming that was a lie. But I’m sorry if I stepped in where I wasn’t needed if?—”
“No, no,” I laugh once, but there’s no humor in it. “It was a lie. That was me being an idiot. He asked if I was there with someone, and I just — I don’t know. I didn’t want him thinking I was alone and pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic.”
The reply comes so fast it catches me off guard.My eyes lift to his, and what I find is an entirely unreadable face. “Thanks.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
I fold my hands together so he won’t see me fidget. “You didn’t have to step in.”
“Yes, I did.”He leans back slightly in the chair. “I’m not going to let you stand there and get cornered by your ex while he enjoys himself.”
I stare at him.
There are a million separate problems with that sentence, the biggest one being that it makes him sound dangerously like someone I could start relying on.
He seems to realize that, too, because his expression shutters a little.
“But,” he says, “even though I signed myself up to pretend to be your boyfriend for them, it isn’t real.”
A knot forms at the base of my throat.“Right. I know that.”
His voice stays even, careful. “If the wedding comes up again, if those people are around, I’ll handle it. That part is fine. But at home, at work, things stay professional.”
At home. At work.Professional.The words are sensible,but they’re also beginning to feel like tiny paper cuts in the exact same spot, digging a painful hole in my skin.
