Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“Do you feel better now?” I ask.
Jake hesitates just a beat too long, then nods his head. “Yeah. Much.”
I swallow my questions. Tonight was the closest to how things were in Manhattan since we’ve been back in Frosty Harbor. I can save the real questions for another time… even though I feel the clock ticking. The wedding is getting closer every day.
I can’t say why, but it feels like we need to find a way to work our issues out before then–like the wedding will either push us apart or bring us together. I decide I’m just being dramatic. There is no reason we can’t handle all of this like adults. We agreed to get fake married, and that’s what we’ll do. Big deal, right?
23
JAKE
I’m in the B&B’s lobby with a hot cup of coffee while Caroline does her thing. Since I’m here, I’ve got Walker at my feet with an assortment of his toys. Caroline has told me a few times to stop buying him so much stuff, but I can’t quite help myself. Whenever I’m away, I end up swinging by toy stores and accidentally filling up a suitcase with toys. His favorite are the big shiny books he can gnaw on. In Walker’s world, chewing on stuff is pretty much what it’s all about right now. That, and Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star. He usually won’t go to sleep now unless one of us sings it to him.
A young couple is all smiles as they check out from their room and gush about how much they loved the town and the experience at the B&B. They’re just sorry they’ll miss the rest of “those hilarious wedding games”. The wife tells Caroline she especially enjoyed watching “the cannonball,” which makes Caroline’s cheeks go red.
My good mood fades when the doors open, and Peter Ralmadue strolls in with a smug expression on his face. “Oh, good,” he says when he sees me. “The fake fiancé is here.”
“Excuse me?” I ask. I don’t bother getting up from the table where I’m sitting as I watch the small man approach. He’s wearing a cheap suit and holding a briefcase. He sets it down between us and sits.
So much for our theory that he was waiting and hoping we forgot about the arrangement.
Caroline notices as she’s finishing up with the guests, and I can sense her trying to hurry them out now.
“I’ve seen through this little scheme since the start,” Peter says. “How stupid do you think I am?”
I feel the ice in my veins. This guy is the one putting stress on Caroline. This guy is the one who tried to come in and take what matters most to her. This fucker is lucky I don’t chuck him straight through the nearest wall–which, for the record, I am still considering a viable option. “How stupid do I think you are?” I ask, voice cold. “You sure you want me to answer that?”
He presses his lips together and starts unlatching his little briefcase. He pulls out a stack of photos. Each one shows me with different women. Nothing compromising, but I’m clearly taking them out for dates or something similar.
I look up, meeting his eyes with a shrug. “And?”
“Doesn’t look like a married man.”
Caroline joins us at the table, pausing when she sees the photos. She gives me an uncertain look.
“Your so-called husband has been busy, Caroline,” Peter says. The smugness is practically dripping from him as he lifts picture after picture of me hand in hand with women or with my arm around them as we leave the arena. “I assume you didn’t know about this?”
“Was this your plan?” I ask. “Dig up old pictures of me and try to half-assedly convince Caroline they’re from after we were engaged?”
His black, badger-like eyes meet mine. “I suppose it’s your word against mine. The word of a womanizing playboy against a man who only wants to expose the truth.”
I snort. “A man who will stop at nothing to weasel his way into owning a building he has no right to? I tap my finger down on the picture sitting atop the pile. “See that?”
Caroline and Peter both lean in. To Caroline’s credit, she’s not blowing up or calling me names, even though she probably wants to. She’s frowning as hard as Peter, trying to figure out what I’m pointing at. Hopefully, she’s not buying his lies.
“Look at my knuckles. Notice anything?” I ask, lifting my knuckles for them to see. There’s a vertical white slash of scar tissue going over three of the knuckles on my right hand. “Caught a skate just a week or two after we got back from Manhattan.”
“I remember you telling me,” she says. She looks just a touch relieved as she moves the pictures around, confirming that the scar isn’t visible in any of them.