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I do, however, try to prove my point.
When my lips graze the corner of her mouth, Sunday’s breath hitches sharply. The warm skin beneath my lips gets warmer as a blush rages. The hands hanging loosely by her sides curl into fists.
But she doesn’t flinch.
With a teasing hum of praise, I retreat. Tapping the back of her hand until she lets me take it, I lace our fingers together and lead her to the sofa. Retaking my seat, I give Sunday no time to think—or overthink—before pulling her down with me, settling her on my lap despite the empty space beside me.
Looks more natural this way, is how i excuse it. It’s what my friends would expect—I’m a touchy-feely guy. It has nothing to do with this wayfeelingmore natural too.
I think only I hear the start of Sunday’s surprised squeal, the noise suppressed before it can fully escape. She only stiffens for a millisecond before catching that too, the curve of her spine slackening against my palm where it rests on her lower back. And she only hesitates for another second more before her own hands wander, one working its way across my shoulders while the other settles on my abdomen.
Trying very hard not to think about how it slips lower with every breath I take, I wait.
I turn to my friends with raised brows, and I wait for the imminent arrival of the teasing and the questions and the dramatics, but they never come.
Instead, they just smile. Creepily. Very serial-killer-esque but much happier, way kinder, very… supportive. Smiles and sighs and a gleeful thumbs-up—Ben, of course—are all we get before gazes are averted. Someone presses play on the film someone else abruptly paused when I blurted out my news, and everyone resumes watching it.
“That was anticlimactic.”
I answer Sunday’s confused surprise with some of my own. “Right?”
She dips her head, and I try not to shiver when she whispers right below my ear, for only me to hear, “You don’t think they know, do you?”
“Not a chance.” If they so much as suspected we’re faking it, they would’ve reacted a whole lot differently.
I’m not sure how to feel about how easily they’ve accepted the lie.
“Do you want me to move?” Sunday wriggles, and I swallow a groan when the warm weight of her shifts. Fuck me, I did not think this through. “They probably won’t notice.”
They definitely would. But that's not why I set a hand on her thigh, keeping her from escaping, nor why I drag a hand down her spine until it slumps, until she relaxes, leaning against me instead of sitting ramrod straight. “I put you here, didn’t I?”
And it feels perfectly, completely normal.
20
SUNDAY
For some reason,when I agreed to Cass’ proposition, I failed to realize we would actually… y’know.Date. Go out. In public. The reality of the situation doesn’t truly dawn on me until I’m standing in front of a mirror, the reflection showing a borderline unrecognizable version of myself.
I can’t remember the last time I wore heels. Have I ever worn heels? Certainly not heels like this; freaking stilettos borrowed from Willow that I’m pretty sure are actively trying to break my neck. And thedress. The dress is trying to suffocate me. Also borrowed from Willow, it’s the same one I wore that fateful night. It was a little tight then but this time, it’stight.
I might not be showing yet but I’m definitelyfeeling. It’s like my skin has shrunk and is clinging too tightly to everything beneath it, the worst sensation in the world. Gee, aren’t I lucky that I get to experience it twice?
“Stop that.” Willow slaps my hands, ceasing their incessant plucking at the material stretched tight across my belly, like it might spontaneously decide to stretch. “You look hot.”
I look like I’m trying too hard. Way too hard. A full face of make-up and an intricate up-do level of too hard. Cass is gonna take one look at me and thinkjeez, she knows this is fake, right?
I do. I definitely do. I’m so aware of that fact, it makes me sick to my stomach, almost as much as thinking of all the people who are going to dissect this date, dissectme, does. Some part of me maybe wishes my first date in over a decade wasn’t strictly for publicity but hey, I’ll take what I can get. I’ll enjoy the nice, expensive meal and I’ll get to know the father of my child, and that’s what really matters. Everything else is just… fluff.
“Auggie! Get in here and tell your mama she looks pretty.”
A groan precedes footsteps sloping down the hall and Willow’s bedroom door creaking open as August joins us. His mouth is open, presumably ready to spill an oh-so-sincere compliment, but as soon as his eyes land on me, it snaps shut. He jolts ram-rod straight. His brow droops as he slowly shakes his head from side to side, like he can’t compute what he’s seeing. “That’s what you’re wearing?”
“Gee, Goose,thanks.”
“It’s a dress.”
Willow nudges me. “Your kid issooooosmart.”
