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“Nothing much,” I say. “Just that this was always where you hung out when you needed space.”
He jangles the ATV keys, stuck in a moment.
“That’s all he said?” he asks. “About the lighthouse?”
I’m confused, but I’m not going to elaborate or add fuel to their already burning fire.
“Yeah, pretty much,” I say. “That, and he said he wouldn’t even know how to get here if he tried.”
A slow smile claims half of Dorian’s full lips before disappearing completely.
“What?” Now it’s my turn to ask questions. “What’s that mean? That face?”
“Nothing,” he says as he treks through tall grass to our waiting ATV.
I trot behind him.
We’re buckling in when I ask him again.
“What are you not telling me?” The irony of my question isn’t lost on me.
He starts the engine. “Maybe you should ask your fiancé what he’s not telling you.”
Burke has no reason to lie to me given that we’re not in love and we’re not actually getting married. Why would he lie about something as trivial as not knowing how to get to the lighthouse? In retrospect, all one has to do is go over the big hill in the middle, and the thing sticks out like a sore thumb among the tall pines and skyscraping oaks.
I ponder this during the entire bumpy, scenic ride back to the main house, and by the time we arrive, it bothers me more than I thought it would.
Nevertheless, I suck it up because, at the end of the day, does it matter?
Would it change anything?
“Thanks again for the tour,” I tell Dorian when we’re heading in, though calling it a tour is a bit of a stretch.
He stops short outside the front door, turning my way. Stepping closer, he narrows the space between us.
“Can you stop?” Dorian asks.
“Stop what?”
“The fakeness, the formality.” He gestures with his hands, though I’m not sure what he’s gesturing at. Me? This? Everything? “The prim-and-proper act. I get that you’re trying to make a good impression on my family, but you don’t have to do that around me. That ship has sailed.”
“All I said was thank you . . .”
The storm brewing in his teal eyes tells me this goes deeper than my politeness.
He wouldn’t despise me so much if he wasn’t hurting.
And you don’t feel hurt over people you don’t care about.
He still cares about me—even if he doesn’t want to.
“It’s what you’re not saying,” he says. “It’s what you’re not doing. It’s what you’re pretending to be, pretending to care about.” He starts to say something else, then stops, gathers a deep breath, and looks me dead in the eyes. “You’re not who I thought you were.”
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
“So that’s all you have to say for yourself?” he asks. “I don’t even get an explanation?”
“Do you . . . want one?” My words are slow and careful, and half of me prays he says no because it’ll make this complicated situation a lot simpler—though it’ll do nothing to anesthetize the emotional pain.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a step back.
“I don’t know. No,” he says. “I think your reason’s pretty obvious actually. It’s pretty clear why you’re here.”
My skin flushes cold as the color is draining from my face, and I can do nothing to stop it.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“You don’t love him,” he says. “That’s plain to see. When he kissed you at breakfast this morning, it was like he was kissing our grandmother. And you bristled.”
I don’t recall bristling.
If I did, then it wasn’t intentional, and Burke didn’t notice, either, or he’d have said something.
“Forgive us for not slipping each other the tongue in front of the whole family,” I say.
“He doesn’t love you either.” He won’t look at me. “Not that you probably give a shit. I think we all know why you’re marrying him.”
“It’s not like that.”
“You realize you’re a rebound, right?” His words are rushed, like they’ve been weighing on his mind for days and now they’re spilling out faster than he can control. “For crying out loud, he’s only been single since earlier this year—which means you’ve known him less than six months.”
His eyes search mine as if he thinks he’ll find the truth somewhere in there, or he’s trying to make sense of something that doesn’t make an ounce of it.
I avert my gaze to break his hold on me.
“What happened to the woman I met a year ago who was antimarriage, who proudly proclaimed she didn’t need a piece of paper to show she was committed to someone?” he asks.
“People are allowed to change.” I hate that I have to give him this answer.
“Right . . . they see dollar signs, and suddenly, everything they stand for goes out the window.”
“That’s not . . . I’m not . . .” I struggle to pick my words in such a way that they won’t violate the NDA. I could stand here and swear up and down that I’m in love with his brother, but the last thing Dorian deserves is another unnecessary lie that won’t fix any of this. “I wish I could explain this to you in a way that makes it hurt less.”
