Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
What had happened in the following weeks still surprised me. We’d started to get coffee together. I gave up my car in the mornings and took the subway. Me. Who the fuck would have guessed? And it hadn’t even been terrible. Not when I had her at my side to make jokes with all morning on our way uptown.
The door creaked open, and I looked into Whit’s apartment at a gorgeous blonde.
My eyes rounded in shock. “Your hair!”
She laughed, almost self-conscious. “Thanks, King. That makes a girl feel good.”
“But the purple,” I said regretfully. “I liked it.”
Her smile was genuine then. “Me too. But I know what Texas weddings are like. Bleach is a safer choice than color.”
Before I could stop myself, I reached forward, threading my fingers through the now–Marilyn Monroe–blonde color. She stilled under my touch.
“You could have just been yourself. You didn’t have to change it.”
She gulped and pulled back with another laugh. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m dyeing it again as soon as I get back.”
“Good,” I said, stuffing my hand into my pocket to keep from touching her again. “Are you ready to go?”
She looked half-ready to run. I could see that all over her.
“I still can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s crazy, right?”
“It’s going to be fun,” I told her with ease. I didn’t want her to back out now. “You already have the time off and a new dress and new hair.”
“I do, and I did. Yeah. But this is wild, even for me.”
I laughed. “Is it? I’ve heard some of your stories.”
She rolled a suitcase to me. “A fake fiancée at your cousin’s wedding for the weekend. This one is going down in the books.”
“Then, let’s get this started.”
She nodded, as if she were determined. “I’m ready as I’ll ever be.”
I wheeled her suitcase into the elevator, and she slung an oversize boho bag and a purse on before locking up. We headed downstairs to the limo that waited to whisk us to the airport.
Her eyes rounded. “Fancy as fuck, King.”
The driver put our bags in the trunk, and I offered for her to get inside first. I slid into the seat next to her. The limo pulled away from the curb, and we were off.
“We should probably plot our backstory,” Whitley said.
“Our backstory?”
“You know, the things that parents are likely to ask. How we met and how you proposed and all that.”
“Probably should stick to the truth as much as we can.”
“Yeah, sure, but the proposal.”
“About that,” I said, clearing my throat.
Suddenly, I was sweating. I’d never considered what this moment would feel like. I’d never wondered who the woman would be or how it would look like or that I’d be sweating. Jesus, it wasn’t even real, and I was so fucking nervous. She could still say no, right? Fuck.
Whitley’s head whipped to me. “What about that?”
I withdrew the black box I’d spent this morning trying to locate. “Whitley Bowen, would you do me the honor of being my fake fiancée?”
Her jaw dropped when I opened the box and revealed my grandmother’s enormous five carat engagement ring. My mother had given it to me when Grandma died a few years back. She told me that she wanted me to hang on to it and give it to someone who deserved it when I was ready. I laughed and told her that day would never come. But she’d closed my hand around the ring and said there was someone right out there for me. Now, I was offering it to Whitley.
“What … what is that?” she whispered.
“This is my grandmother’s engagement ring. My mom passed it to me.”
“I can’t wear that!” She looked up at me with big, frightened eyes. “That’s your grandma’s ring.”
“I know. But no one will believe that you’re my fiancée without it.”
“What if it doesn’t fit?”
I plucked the ring out of the box. It was heftier than I remembered. Well, I’d never even touched the thing. It felt terrifying to even consider giving this to someone. Even though this was fake, I couldn’t deny that I wanted to slip the ring onto Whit’s finger.
I took her left hand in my own and slowly slid the ring onto her ring finger. It slipped into place, as if the ring had been designed for her. As if it hadn’t been on my grandmother’s hand for fifty years and passed down to me for some unknowable future bride.
Whitley’s eyes were wide. “Oh,” she whispered, breathy and uncertain.
She held her hand out in front of her, looking at the huge ring on her dainty finger. Her nails had been done, and the whole thing looked like a picture-perfect moment. Her hand shook slightly.
“It’s beautiful.”
I’d never seen this expression on her face before. It was almost uncertainty, as if she had confronted a fear she’d had her whole life and realized that maybe she wasn’t that different from other girls.