Page 79 of Pretend To Be Mine

I didn’t pull away. It felt too good walking together like an actual couple instead of two people playing roles.

I had to remind myself this was fake. Temporary. Soon after Fashion of Love Week, Elizabeth would no longer be my fiancée. She’d be an employee. Someone I saw at the office and treated with professional courtesy.

The thought made something dark and heavy settle in my chest. Despair, dread, a hint of sadness. I was grieving a relationship that never was before it even ended.

I hated that I felt anything at all. This was supposed to be a business arrangement. Choosing Elizabeth was supposed to simplify things. Keep everything neat and contained.

Instead, she’d complicated everything. Made me feel things I’d successfully avoided feeling for years. Made me want things I had no business wanting.

The three of us piled into the car. I took a moment to close my eyes. No one spoke. I knew Elizabeth was probably trying to take in as much of the city as she could and Mom was busy on her phone.

The hotel was five-star luxury in Mayfair, the kind of place where discretion was as important as the thread count. We checked in under the protection of the manager himself, who ushered us to a private elevator that led directly to our suite while Mom was escorted to a junior suite.

“Oh my God,” Elizabeth breathed when we entered.

The suite was massive, with a living room, bedroom, bathroom with a tub big enough for two, and a small private balcony overlooking the London streets. But what caught Elizabeth’s attention was the spread waiting for us.

A full English breakfast covered the dining table. Scones with clotted cream and jam. Bacon, eggs, and sausages.

“Bangers,” I said, pointing at the sausages.

Elizabeth started giggling. “I’m sorry, I know it’s a real term, but bangers? They call sausages bangers?”

“And mash when you serve them with mashed potatoes. Bangers and mash.”

She was laughing now. And despite my exhaustion and the nerves about tonight’s show, I found myself chuckling too.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said.

“You like it,” she countered, still grinning.

Yeah. I did.

We ate breakfast while I pulled out my phone to show her the continued media coverage.

“Look at this,” I said, scrolling through articles. “Everyone’s still talking about Friday night. Your appearance was the highlight for most reviewers.”

“That’s generous of them.”

“It’s accurate.” I found a particularly glowing review and read aloud. “Elizabeth Laramie’s surprise walk showcased Blackwell’s ability to blend personal and professional seamlessly. Her curves brought new life to a design originally shown on a traditional model body, proving that Blackwell Couture’s vision is more inclusive than critics have claimed.”

“Wow,” Elizabeth said softly.

“You’re a huge hit. Social media can’t stop talking about you. There are memes, Elizabeth. Good ones.” I showed her my favorite, a split screen of her looking nervous backstage and then confident on the runway, captioned: “When you realize you’re America’s sweetheart.”

She laughed, but I could see the emotion in her eyes. “I can’t believe this is real.”

“It’s real. You’re part of this now. A big part. Thank you for being such a big part of New York. For saving the show and making it something people will remember.”

“You’re welcome. Though I think you’re giving me too much credit. It was your vision, your father’s dream. I just showed up.”

“You did more than show up.” I reached over and pulled her hand. She came willingly, settling into my lap. “You made it better.”

I kissed her, doing my best to show her just how much I appreciated her.

She shifted her weight. “I’m squishing you.”

“Not even a little.”