I force a nod. “Of course.”
“Good.” His hands flex as he sits up straighter. “I’m assuming he’s why you were sleeping on your friend’s couch.”
“He—Yeah,” I admit.
“Then I’ll make sure he wishes he never hurt you.”
There it is again, that mixed signal whiplash.
The kiss by the pool. The icy correction. The protective fake-boyfriend act. The kiss against the side of my head that definitely wasn’t needed. The immediate reminder that none of it is real.
I don’t know whether he’s confused, repressed, noble, stupid, or all four.
He glances toward the hallway. “I’ve got a couple things to finish in my office before bed.”
“Okay.”
He gives one short nod and gets up, walking down the hallway and disappearing around a corner in this maze of a house.
I sit there for another few seconds staring at nothing before I get up, go to my room, and close my own door behind me.I kick off my shoes and sit on the edge of the bed, then fall backward onto the duvet with a groan.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask the ceiling, as though it might clarify for me whether I mean him or me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slide it out without much thought, assuming it’s a text from Zoe or Mom or a social media notification that I couldn’t care less about.
But it’s not.
It’s an alert from the apartment app I was scrolling the other day. One bed, one bath, central Boulder, newly remodeled, white goods included, towards the top of my price range?—
I open the listing so fast I almost drop my phone on my face.
Hardwood floors. Small but not depressing kitchen. Clean bathroom. In-unit laundry, which feels almost erotic at this point in my life.
I read every line twice before I message immediately, terrified someone wealthier with better credit and a more stable life can get there first.
To my shock, the response comes back fast.
The landlord is local. He’s doing renovations and says it won’t be move-in ready for another twelve weeks, give or take, but he’s willing to work with me on payment timing if I’m serious.
Twelve weeks. My eyes snag on it.
That’s a week after the wedding.
Long enough for this fake-boyfriend situation to either quietly die or explode spectacularly in my face.
Long enough to keep living here while I figure out how to exist beside Grayson Sparkks.
But it’s also an exit.A real one.A backup plan.If things go to shit in this house and he ends up firing me, I need one.
I stare at the message thread for less than ten seconds before typing back that yes, I’m serious. Yes, I want it. Yes, I can make it work.
The reply comes with lease details and a promise that he’ll hold it for me if I sign tonight.
My pulse kicks up.
This feels reckless. But sodoes staying here with no way out.
I open the documents, read enough to make sure I’m not accidentally agreeing to sell a kidney, then sign.
