Page 66 of His Fake Fiancé

Her hair fell over her shoulder, partially covering her face, the golden cascade catching the sunlight. It was a beautiful shot, with the way she practically glowed. Once again, he wished for his camera. To get lost in the light and the shadows.

She looked over at him, tucking her hair behind her ear. “What?”

He shook his head, turning his focus back to the road. “Nothing.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her reach for him. He held his breath. He honestly wasn’t sure what he wanted. Did he want her to touch him, try to soothe him, like she always did? Or was he afraid that if she touched him, he was going to crack into thousands of tiny pieces?

Maybe a bit of both.

At the last second, she stopped, lowered her hand rest on the console between them. The streak of disappointment that shot through him was unexpected. And unwelcome. He currently didn’t have the emotional strength to deal with whatever the fuck it meant.

“Jake?” Her voice had that careful quality to it, the kind people used when they were telling you how sorry they were that someone died. He hated it. The sympathy, the sadness, the pity.

“Don’t, Claire.” He kept his gaze on the road, even though he wanted to look at her, to touch her, to hold her. Ask if she’d help hold together the pieces of him that were falling apart. Like she had when his dad had died a few years ago. She’d been there beside him in the church during the funeral, held his hand at the graveside service, let him cry on her shoulder when she found him in the hayloft that evening.

How had he never noticed how special she was before now? How had he been so oblivious?

He pulled into the driveway of the ranch. The bumpy gravel road was at least familiar, along with the swells and dips in the land here. An almost miniscule amount of his tension evaporated.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Her voice shook, and that wobble felt like he’d been sliced open with a rusty knife. “I should have been better at the whole fiancé thing. And I definitely shouldn’t have taken off and left you guys. That was so dumb. I should have known better. Someone must have seen—”

“No, no,” he said, glancing over at her again. She had that damn corner of her lip caught between her teeth again. The guilt and worry in her gaze smashed into his chest like a sledgehammer through glass. “You did nothing wrong.”

She tore her gaze from his, stared out the window. The view was the same as it had always been, was probably as ingrained into her as it was into him. Nothing new, nothing exciting. But better than looking at him and his stupid face.

He pulled the truck up to the house and turned off the engine. Claire hopped out and closed the door, but he couldn’t get his muscles to co-operate to do the same. He just stared at the house. He’d lived here all his life. With his family and friends within reach, someone to play with, or offer help, or just to bounce an idea off of. Did Gina have that? Did she ever have that? He hadn’t actually given his life and its privilege much thought before, but now, now he knew what kind of a gift it really was.

Claire popped open his door. The cold air rushed inside the cab, making him shiver. “Come on,” she said, reaching across his lap to pop the seatbelt. Her earthy vanilla scent wafted up to him. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say.

And he still owed her an apology.

He opened his mouth, but once again, the words got stuck somewhere between his lungs and his mouth. Maybe that was a good thing, one less thing he couldn’t screw up.

When, after a few minutes, he didn’t move, she grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the truck. For a little thing, she was remarkably strong. Not surprising. She did grow up on a ranch, after all. Spent most of her childhood running and riding. Like him.

His feet hit the ground and for a split second, he wasn’t sure his legs were going to hold. But then his knees locked and he was standing. She led him away from the truck and then pushed the door closed.

The numbness he’d been praying for had finally hit him, although he wasn’t sure if it was welcome or not. But it was better than the hurt, better than the throbbing ache he wasn’t sure would ever go away.

Claire stepped up to him, into his side, and wrapped one arm around his waist. It felt good, right, and he leaned into it. Maybe a little too much, because she staggered a bit. He pulled back a little, his mind screaming to not let go.

The next few minutes went by in a blur. Somehow, they made their way past the house, across the yard, and into the guest house, all without him even realizing they were moving.

Claire pressed him onto the sofa, and he sat with a sigh. He pulled off his tie and tossed it onto the coffee table. It felt like he could breathe again. He ran his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. It had been a long fucking day.

His gaze zeroed in on the pack and play, still set out in the middle of the room. The stray cheerios that had rolled off the coffee table. The blanket and pillows he’d piled on the floor, where he and Oliva had bunkered down to watch a movie last night. Well, he’d watched the movie. She’d crawled around, playing with her toys and using him like a jungle gym. They’d practiced her walking, him sitting on the floor, her little hands wrapped around his fingers, trusting he wouldn’t let her fall. Wouldn’t let her go.

A sob tore itself from his chest. He tried to swallow it down, tried to stop the one crawling up his throat behind the first. But it was too late. The gate had been flung open and there was no stopping the tidal wave of emotion barreling down on him. His vision blurred and he blinked furiously to stop the tears. But it didn’t help. Nothing helped.

He buried his face in his hands and let go, let the sadness and anger and guilt and shame take him.

And then Claire was there, sitting on the sofa next to him. She wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close. The scent of vanilla and outdoors surrounded him. Because she was always there when he needed her.

He turned toward her, wrapped his arms around her, buried his face against her neck. His chest and throat ached, and he couldn’t swallow back the sobs no matter how hard he tried.

Claire rubbed his back, her cheek pressed against the top of his head. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He eventually stopped sobbing, but he didn’t let her go. Being held by her, her soft curves pressed against him felt good, made him feel at peace somehow. Well, as good as someone who felt like they’d been hollowed out with a spoon and then tossed aside could feel. He didn’t know how long he’d cried for, but it felt like forever.