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“Yes, indeed, a perfect choice,” he states. “It seems you have quite the taste, Mr. Reid.”
He nods in Logan’s direction, tipping his neck back as he casts him a sympathetic smile.
Logan shakes his head. “She’s the one with good taste. I just picked something I knew she’d like.”
I’m smiling when he locks eyes with me, but I feel like I’m about to throw up. This is harder than I thought it would be.
“Always the way to go,” Mrs. Meyer asserts. “So, when’s the big day?”
“We don’t have a set date yet,” Logan answers. “But we’re thinking next summer.”
The lies roll over his tongue with such ease. It’s appalling, but shouldn’t surprise me after what I learned today. He’s experienced in deceit, just like any other criminal.
“Oh, still plenty of time to plan then,” Mrs. Meyer goes on, throwing me a confidential smile. “And how did he propose, dear? It was romantic I’m sure?”
Fuck. Her question hits me off guard. We never prepared for this. Logan schooled me on so many things. I have a full course of life laid out for a fake version of myself, an elaborate lie about how we met in a coffeeplace and Logan approached me while I was reading,facts about my made up family, our life together, our alleged plans for the future—but no story for his fake proposal.
How could we forget about that? How couldhebe so negligent?
I turn to him, awkward and unsure what to say, while my fingers circle around his wrist, tightening my grip to urge him to come up with a response. I’ve never been a good liar, so all of this is hard enough as it is, but coming up with something like this on the spot is completely beyond my capabilities.
Logan, on the other hand, looks as cool as a cucumber. He pats my hand as if to say ‘I got this’ before he clears his throat.
“Not sure about the romantic part, but I tried my best for sure,” he begins. “It was about a month ago. We were having dinner at Chez Jacques.”
“One of our favorites,” Mr. Meyer throws in, and his wife nods eagerly.
“It’s so elegant, and the food has no equal,” she adds. “Perfect place for a proposal, if you ask me.”
“That’s true, but I didn’t propose at the restaurant,” Logan says, evoking surprised looks from the entire group—including me. He pats my hand again but I’m sure this time it’s not to soothe me, but to remind me that I—unlike the others—am supposed to know about this and thus should not display the same level of surprise.
“I thought about doing it there, but thought it would be better to do at home. It’s more intimate that way,” he goes on. “So, we just had dinner there. We usually go out for dinner on Fridays, relax and unwind from the stress of the week, and talk. It’s kind of become our little tradition, hasn’t it?”
The smile on his face is so genuine, so warm and caring that it’s impossible not to fall for it, successfully shielding the lies behind his words.
“Yes, it has,” I agree, forcing a smile on my face that probably doesn’t come across half as genuine as his. “It’s a great way to end the week.”
“So, you didn’t suspect anything?” Mrs. Meyer wants to know, placing her hand on my upper arm as she leans closer, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.
“Not at all,” I say. “It was just like any other Friday night. Until we got home...”
I trail off and give Logan a look from the side, knowing that I pretty much threw him under the bus right there. I don’t know if he has his entire story already laid out in his head, or if I just put him on the spot. Either way, he’ll have to come up with something now.
“What happened then?” Mrs. Meyer implores. She’s clearly invested now, unlike her husband and Mr. Briggs, who obviously feign interest out of politeness.
Logan furrows an eyebrow at me ashebrings the flute to his lips, taking a sip ofchampagne to buy himself some time. I feel a hint of satisfaction trailing down my spine.
“Well, Katherine is an avid reader,” he goes on eventually.
I try my best not to reveal my surprise on my face. Where is he going with this?
“As am I. So, we have a large library at home, filled with all our favorites, and antiques, collectibles, first editions. You know, that sort of thing,” he goes on. “We like to spend our evenings there, sometimes, each indulging in our latest read. And that evening, after the restaurant, we had planned to do the same. I knew Katherine was between books at the moment, even though her so-called ‘want-to-read’pile never seems to shrink.”
He pauses, leaving room for a reaction, and a polite chuckle travels through the group.
“So, we change and retreat to the library.I make us some tea,soas not to raise suspicion, because we always have tea with our books. Of course, I had a bottle ofchampagne prepared and chilled in the fridge,” he continues, adding a little wink that causes another round of laudatory chuckles.
“When Kat gets ready to settle down, browsing through her pile of unread books, I suggest one that I’d just gotten for her that day. It’s still wrapped when I hand it to her,” he goes on—and I’m hanging on to his lips, just like the rest of the group.
