Page 92 of Pretend To Be Mine

Maybe Sebastian was wrong. Maybe I’d read too much into the way she looked at me. The heat between us was just physical attraction. I fooled myself into thinking it was something more.

“Adrian!” One of the production assistants flagged me down. “We’ve got an issue and Sebastian disappeared.”

I rolled my eyes. He didn’t disappear. He was in a dark closet with one or two models. I would bet money on it.

I needed to focus. I just had to make it through the rest of Love Week and then figure out what the hell to do about the mess my heart had made.

Just a few more days.

I could survive a few more days.

30

ELIZABETH

Adrian stood beside me in the manor’s grand ballroom, his hand resting in the small of my back. It was a gesture that looked possessive and intimate from the outside but it was more like a pose. He was keeping the appropriate distance while maintaining appearances.

I had only myself to blame for the current ice out. It was my fault. Just like a wounded animal, I snapped at the man that tried to be nice. My careless words about jealousy and pretending were a little harsh. But to be fair, he had done it first.

What started out as a beautiful day had quickly soured. I couldn’t wait to be done with the whole thing. I wanted to go back to the hotel.

“Elizabeth, this is Marcus Wellington, editor of British Vogue.” Adrian’s voice was professional. The voice he used for networking. “Marcus, my fiancée, Elizabeth Laramie.”

“The woman of the hour!” Marcus air-kissed both my cheeks in that European way I was still getting used to. “Darling, your surprise appearance in New York was inspired. Pure genius. Tell me, will you be walking tonight as well?”

“Oh, no.” I felt my cheeks heat. “That was a one-time emergency. I’m not actually a model.”

“You could be,” a woman in a stunning black gown interjected, joining our circle. “Those curves, that face—you photograph beautifully. Very Sophia Loren, very classic.”

“Thank you, but modeling really isn’t my thing.” I took a sip of champagne, wishing it would make this easier. It was a fine line between drinking enough champagne to loosen up and so much that I made a fool of myself. And Adrian. That would cost me my job for sure. “In New York, one of the models got sick and I had to fill in. I was terrified the entire time.”

“You couldn’t tell,” Adrian said. There was a quality in his tone that made me look up. He was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. He looked proud. His hand slid up and down my back a few times. “Elizabeth saved the day. One of the models smelled a carb and her body went into shock. Elizabeth jumped in without hesitation.”

Several people laughed at his joke. I found myself smiling as well, even if I actually liked most of the models. They were sweet and I actually felt bad that so many of them were treated like they were airheads that survived on celery juice. I admired their commitment to their diets.

I could never do it.

“She’s my hero,” Adrian continued. His arm slid around my waist and he tugged me against him. “She made a good show great.”

The praise should have made me happy. I wanted to be proud because I’d pleased him. Instead, it killed me.

Because he sounded so real.

And I knew it was just excellent acting. The performance we’d both signed up for. Adrian Blackwell was playing the role of devoted fiancé, and doing it so well that even I, who knew the truth, wanted to believe it.

And yes, it made me wonder about everything he said and did when it was just the two of us. It made me second-guess what he said about my designs. We had blurred the lines so badly I couldn’t decipher real and fake.

“You two are absolutely adorable together,” Marcus said. “The chemistry is palpable. America’s sweethearts indeed. Excuse me, I see someone I need to speak with.”

He drifted away, and others quickly filled his space. More editors, more designers, more people who wanted to congratulate Adrian and me on our engagement and the success of his last show.

And through it all, Adrian stayed at my side. He kept his hand on me but he maintained that careful distance that felt like miles even though he was right there next to me.

If I admitted I fell for him, what would happen? What if I told him every touch and moment together had become achingly real for me? That the thought of this ending in a week made me want to cry.

He’d think I was crazy. We’d known each other for less than two weeks. You couldn’t fall in love in two weeks. It was impossible, illogical. Real love took time.

Except I had. My dumbass had fallen in love with Adrian Blackwell. Getting physical had complicated everything. It muddied waters that were supposed to stay clear. If we’d kept things purely professional and hadn’t crossed that line, I wouldn’t be feeling like my chest had been hollowed out.