Page 39 of Fake it for Keeps

13

COLT

The yacht docked at Shelter Island just after ten in the morning. The sun was out but it was cold as shit. I was already in a foul mood. Everything annoyed me, including the frigid temperatures.

Obviously, that was to be expected given the time of year, but it still pissed me off. It was going to be one of those days.

I’d been awake since four a.m., courtesy of the dream that had hit me like a sock full of nickels. This time it had been more vivid, more real. If I could take a pill to make them stop, I would do it in a heartbeat.

I’d given up on sleep around five and spent the rest of the early morning hours working from my stateroom, trying to distract myself with quarterly projections and design approvals. It hadn’t worked. The images still clung to the edges of my mind, making everything feel sharp and jagged.

Now, as we prepared to disembark, I could feel the exhaustion dragging at me, making my patience thinner than usual.

“Why can’t we just stay on the yacht?” Hallie asked. She looked fresh and rested in dark jeans and a cream sweater, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. “It’s incredible. We have everything we need right here. Frankie is staying on the yacht.”

“Because that’s not the point,” I said, my tone expressing every ounce of my irritation. “The point of this engagement is to be visible. To be seen. We need to show our faces at the hotel, have dinner at their restaurant, be photographed by guests who’ll post about it on social media.”

“So it’s all performance.”

“It’s all always been performance,” I shot back. “Did you think we were actually going on a romantic getaway?”

Her expression shuttered, and I immediately regretted my words. But I was too tired and too on edge to take them back.

We made our way off the yacht in tense silence. Frankie shot me a concerned look as she passed, clearly picking up on the atmosphere, but she didn’t say anything.

The car ride to the hotel was worse. Hallie had stopped talking to me entirely, instead pressing her face to the window and watching the scenery roll past. And I had to admit, even through my exhaustion and irritation, it was beautiful.

Snow fell in fat, lazy flakes, covering everything in a blanket of white. The trees were frosted like mini-wheats. The roads wound through quaint neighborhoods and past sprawling estates, everything picture-perfect and serene.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had been out here. It was probably with a woman I barely knew. The island provided a good escape and an excuse to stay locked up in a hotel room for a couple of days.

Hallie looked years younger, like a kid seeing snow for the first time. There was an expression of awe that made me curious. I found myself watching her instead of the scenery. The way her breath fogged the window. The slight smile playing at her lips. The wonder in her eyes.

She looked so unguarded like this.

It reminded me that despite everything, she was still a real person with real feelings. Not just a prop in my redemption tour.

The hotel came into view, and even I had to appreciate its elegance. It wasn’t one I had stayed at before. The building itself was stunning, a historic estate that had been converted into a luxury resort. The grounds looked immaculate beneath the snow, with heated pools steaming in the cold air, hot tubs tucked into private alcoves, and what looked like a world-class spa attached to the main building.

“Wow,” Hallie breathed, her nose still pressed to the window.

“Nothing but the best,” I said, trying to inject some warmth back into my voice.

She didn’t respond.

We pulled up to the entrance, and a valet immediately appeared to help with our luggage. I offered Hallie my arm as we walked in. Partly for show and partly because the stone steps were slippery with snow and I didn’t want her to fall. She took it reluctantly.

The lobby was another testament to the cost of the rooms in the place. It was a cross between cozy and opulence. A massive fireplace crackled with real wood. Elegant without being ostentatious. Where old money came to relax while pretending to be somewhere quaint and rustic.

I approached the reception desk with Hallie at my side, already pulling out my ID and credit card.

“Reservation for Jesson,” I said. “Two suites.”

The clerk, a young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, typed something into his computer. Then his expression faltered.

“Ah, Mr. Jesson. Yes. I have your reservation here, but I’m afraid there’s been a situation.”

My jaw tightened. “There better not be.”