Pretend We Are Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Galeana

The cab rattles to a stop on the uneven cobblestone driveway, the tires crunching against the stones like they’re grinding up the remnants of my dignity. “Welcome to Costa Serena, signorina,” the driver says with a too-cheerful intonation, as if his words alone could wash away the fact that two days ago, I was left at the altar.

Chase Monaghan, my now ex, didn’t even have the guts to tell me himself. Instead, he sent his poor mother to deliver the message while everyone waited for him to show up. “Sorry, sweetie, he said he can’t do it.” Her voice trembled, her hands clutching mine like I was the one abandoning her. “I . . . I don’t understand. Something about not being emotionally available.” And then she broke down, sobbing like she’d been the one stood up.

I consoled her. Me. The bride. The one who had just been left at the altar because I wasn’t enough, was making sure she was okay. Like Mom used to do when I was hurt, I rubbed her back and murmured soft reassurances.

As if that wasn’t enough, once she was feeling better, I faced two hundred guests. With a forced, brittle smile, I announced there wouldn’t be a wedding. But please, enjoy the reception. The food’s on me.

It’s not like I could get my money back, anyway. Everything was paid for. At least I’d gone with the bronze menu, not the platinum one Chase had insisted on. “Let’s just keep it simple,” I’d said during planning. “Who doesn’t love a good pig in a blanket? In this economy, no one needs a five-course meal for two hundred people.”

That was a lie. Chase could afford it. He could’ve hired a private chef for everyone if he wanted. But I was in charge of the reception. My savings and teacher salary could only afford so much though, so we went with the appetizers and cash bar.

He, on the other hand, had paid for the honeymoon. A lavish, nonrefundable trip to the Amalfi Coast. So I packed my bags, planted myself at the airport for twelve miserable hours, and flew here anyway. If Chase had dared to show up, he must’ve turned around the second he saw me, because I haven’t heard a peep. And honestly? Good.

I’m so mad at him I can’t even see straight. Mad at the cowardice, the selfishness, the sheer audacity of saying it’s over via his poor mother. Couldn’t he at least have had the decency to look me in the eye and say I’m not enough?

The Mediterranean breeze hits me as I step out of the cab, warm and fragrant, like a slap disguised as a caress. Costa Serena—a postcard-perfect slice of paradise on Italy’s Amalfi Coast. It’s all here, just like in the photos: the pristine white walls, the cascade of bougainvillea spilling over wrought-iron balconies, the glittering expanse of blue stretching endlessly into the horizon.

It’s the kind of place where couples come to sip prosecco and stare into each other’s eyes. Meanwhile, I’m standing here solo, dragging my emotional deadweight, and blinking hard against the sting of tears.

The driver pulls my bags from the trunk with a wide grin, his energy grating against the jagged edges of my mood. “?Benvenuta! Spero che il suo soggiorno sia piacevole,” he chirps, all sunshine and goodwill.

Enjoy your stay? Sure. Because lounging in paradise is obviously the perfect cure for being left in a wedding dress with a three-tiered cake I didn’t even get to enjoy. And damn it if that doesn’t make me even angrier. It was the perfect cake—strawberries and champagne with a raspberry mousse filling on one half, and chocolate cherry with a crunchy choco-mousse filling on the other. Aiden’s invention.

She’s not just my best friend; she’s the only family I have left. She poured her heart into that cake, perfecting every layer, every detail, because she knew how much it meant to me. Thinking about her—about the family I wanted to build with Chase, about all the hopes and plans that crumbled the moment he decided I wasn’t enough—squeezes something deep in my chest.

The thought lingers, heavy and unrelenting, threatening to crack through the fragile wall of anger I’ve built to keep the pain at bay.

I suck in a breath and blink hard, willing the tears to stay put. I won’t fall apart, not in front of a stranger.

Nope. Not here. Not now.

The driver clears his throat politely, breaking the tension and snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. Right. Time to move.

I dig through my purse, my fingers fumbling over receipts, lip balm, and my phone before I finally pull out my wallet and some cash. “Grazie,” I mumble, shoving the bills toward him with what I hope passes for a polite smile.

He beams and offers a cheerful, “Grazie!” before getting into the cab.

As the driver pulls away, I let out a long breath and glance up at the villa. Somewhere beneath the smoldering rage, there’s hurt. Deep, buried, and stubbornly unexamined, but undeniably there. My mother used to say emotions are like storms—you can’t stop them, but you can wait them out.

Right now, though? The storm is anger, and I’m riding it straight toward vindication. If Chase thought he was going to enjoy this trip, he can think again.

I wheel my suitcase toward the entrance. The resort towers over me, all sweeping arches and airy elegance, dripping with the kind of romance I once planned to bask in as a newlywed. Now . . . now I’m just bitter. So fucking angry.

Inside, the lobby is a masterclass in luxury: high ceilings, polished marble floors that gleam under the afternoon sun, and air scented with citrus and jasmine. It’s stunning, and I hate that I notice.

The receptionist looks up from her desk, her smile warm and impossibly bright. “Benvenuta a Costa Serena. May I have your name?”

“Galeana Monroe,” I say, pulling myself up straighter. If I can’t be a glowing newlywed, I’ll at least be dignified.

Her fingers fly across the keyboard, the clacking of her nails unnervingly loud in the otherwise tranquil space. “Ah, you’re in our premium honeymoon suite. A wonderful choice.”

Of course I am. Fucking Chase choosing the honeymoon suite when deep down he was thinking about ditching me. Asshole.

“Actually . . .” I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice polite. “Is there another room available? Something a little less . . . romantic? Something that says, ‘sulking while enjoying the sun’ instead of ‘remember that the fucking groom left you at the altar’?”

Her smile wavers, but she keeps her composure. “The honeymoon suite is one of our finest accommodations. It has a private balcony, a stunning sea view, champagne service . . . and you’ve already paid for it. Why downgrade?”

Give this woman a raise. She has a point, but mine is more valid.

“As I said, I’d really prefer not to?—”

“Listen, I’m going to be honest. We’re booked solid and can’t accommodate your request,” she interjects smoothly, her tone still polite-ish. “However, we’ll make sure that any extra expenses you incur are covered by us, Ms. Monroe.”

Before I can ask what “extra expenses” might include, she pulls out a spa menu and a glossy brochure of resort tours. “We have a variety of amenities to ensure your stay is unforgettable. Complimentary spa treatments, guided hikes, wine tastings . . . and of course, our sunset boat tour is highly recommended.”

I recall Aiden’s advice: Soak up the sun, enjoy your time there, and we’ll figure out the rest when you’re back. Right. An all-expense-paid vacation with these perks is exactly what a bitter woman like me needs.

Stop calling yourself bitter, Galeana. Angry—with a strong thirst for Chase’s blood—feels like a more accurate description.

“You’re right,” I say, forcing a bright smile that barely conceals my exhaustion. “ I’ll take it. Let’s make the most of the remnants of what will never happen.”

Her smile returns, glowing like she just won an award for persistence. “Excellent choice, Ms. Monroe.”

A bellhop materializes with an air of cheerful efficiency, sweeping my suitcase away and chatting as he leads me through the resort. “The suite has the best view of the coast. And the bed—ah, you’ll sleep like a queen.”

I give him a tight smile, nodding mechanically. I wonder if I can somehow will him into silence. A shy, quiet bellhop would be a dream right now.

When he pushes open the double doors to my suite, I stop in my tracks. The room is . . . a lot. Gauzy white curtains frame the sliding doors to a balcony overlooking the sea. Inside, a vase of pink peonies sits on the glass table, next to a tray holding a bottle of chilled champagne with two glasses. And there, on the king-sized bed, are two towel swans surrounded by a heart of rose petals.

“Oh, come on,” I mutter under my breath.

“This is your suite for the week, signorina,” the bellhop announces, clearly expecting a gasp of delight. I nod, tight-lipped, and give him a tip. Then, I wait for him to leave. The second the door closes, I grab one of the swans and toss it on the floor. It flops pathetically, unraveling into a limp towel.

The rose petals stay on the bed, taunting me. I consider throwing those too, but I don’t have the energy. Instead, I kick off my shoes and sink onto the mattress. It’s soft, too soft, like it’s mocking me for being alone.

I stare at the ceiling, willing myself not to cry. “It’s fine,” I say aloud, trying to convince myself. “I’m in Italy. There’s wine. There’s gelato. This is supposed to be a good thing.”

But the bitterness doesn’t listen. It claws its way up, excruciatingly insistent. This wasn’t supposed to be a solo trip. I was supposed to be here with him . We’d planned it all together—the romantic dinners, the lazy mornings in bed, the stupid couple’s massages.

My throat tightens, and I shoot up from the bed, heading for the balcony. The ocean breeze hits me as I step outside, my hands gripping the cool iron railing. The view is breathtaking, the kind of perfect that should bring comfort. But instead of soothing me, it fucking stings, leaving me feeling even more unsteady.

Below, on the pebble-strewn beach, couples stroll hand in hand, laughing softly as if they’re in a commercial for happiness. My jaw clenches as I watch one man lift his partner off her feet, spinning her in a slow, giddy circle. The sound of their laughter carries upward, light and carefree, and it makes my stomach churn.

“Good for them,” I mutter to the empty air. “Enjoy your picture-perfect romance. I’ll just be up here. Alone. Eating enough tiramisu for two.”

A sharp knock at the door startles me. It’s room service, delivering fresh strawberries, and a charcuterie board. He sets them on the table next to the champagne. It’s all picture perfect. The ideal honeymoon without a groom.

“To me,” I say, raising the still closed bottle of champagne. “To being single. And to this week not sucking as much as it already does.”

It’s just a week , I tell myself. Seven days. I can survive this. Maybe even enjoy it. But as I glance back at the towel laying on the floor, I can’t shake the gnawing ache in my chest.

This was supposed to be the start of something new. Instead, it’s just me, a broken engagement, and fine alcohol. Yet, I can’t bring myself to enjoy this, at least not yet.

And just like Mom always said, I go take a long bath. Water purifies everything. New plan, enjoy this bath, then I’ll get so drunk I won’t remember his name.

Chase fucking who?