The Fake Proposal (Steamy Shorts #32)

Chapter 1

DEAN

"Liz, you're twenty-seven, and the only guy you've ever introduced to us is Dean, your best friend. So please, tell me more about this imaginary boyfriend you have."

Maura's voice slices across the terrace, and every muscle in my body locks.

The champagne tray nearly slips from my grip. Ten feet away, Liz sits frozen while her sister eviscerates her in front of a table full of wedding guests, and Rochelle—her own mother—laughs.

Jesus Christ, not again.

My vision tunnels. A roar builds beneath my skin. The glasses rattle because I'm strangling the tray handles.

Sunlight glints off the ocean beyond the terrace railing, the perfect backdrop for this public humiliation, as I stand frozen between the bar and their table. I promised Liz I'd be here for moral support during her sister's wedding weekend, but I never imagined walking into this.

Liz sits wedged between two women she most likely doesn't know, eyes darting to the nearest exit. That pale green sundress from our New York trip last summer makes her skin glow, even as she shrinks into herself. Her chestnut bob is tucked behind both ears, head slightly bowed.

Maura holds court at the table center because where else would she sit with her strawberry blonde hair in an updo, oversized sunglasses pushed up at the top of her head, and the too-big engagement ring on her finger.

That fiancé of hers—Ted something—scrolls his phone, the very embodiment of a man excited to marry the woman of his dreams. And Rochelle sits there sipping her drink, a smile on her face, while her younger daughter gets torn apart.

What the hell is wrong with this family?

Eight years of this. Every family gathering, every holiday, Maura finds new ways to remind Liz she's not enough. Usually, Liz grabs my hand before I can say anything—squeezes hard enough to hurt, her silent way of begging me not to make it worse.

Well, she's not grabbing my hand now.

She doesn't even know I'm here yet.

Her hands twist a napkin in her lap, the fabric mangled beyond recognition. She plasters on a fake smile, the one where the corners of her mouth twitch.

Liz can't fool me with that smile. Her chest rises and falls too quickly, and her breaths are shallow. Even all the way from here, her eyes glisten.

Fucking hell. She's on the verge of tears, and that's the last thing she wants to happen—lose it in front of her family and her sister's guests.

"Liz, honey." Rochelle sets down her wineglass, which, judging by her glazed look, isn't her first. "You don't need to be defensive. We just want you to be happy."

I roll my eyes so hard, I can see my brain matter. Another lie. She never made it a secret who her favorite daughter is or how much she wants Liz to be like Maura.

Maura waves a hand because God forbid people forget her expensive diamond ring."You've never brought anyone home, so we all know you don't have a boyfriend. Why are you lying now?"

First of all, Liz had two boyfriends—a hockey jock in college who kept reminding Liz who his father was, what his father did for a living, and how much his father's net worth was. The other one was a finance bro who spent more time watching his reflection on their dates than talking to her.

Yes, Liz had boyfriends. And yes, she's had terrible taste in men.

And yes, despite their meanness, Maura and Rochelle, no doubt, do wish to see Liz settled.

I cannot believe they can be as shallow and spiky as they appear.

They must have their redeeming features.

I haven't seen them yet. My hunch is they are overly protective —like cacti—wanting Liz to find the right man and, above all else, be happy. Fulfilled.

Second, she brought someone home. That someone is me. Maura conveniently forgot I was there every holiday since Liz and I met because Liz cannot stomach being in the same room as them.

The table shifts uncomfortably. One of the women smirks, and another studies her cocktail drink with sudden fascination.

Maura's inability to read the room really needs to be studied.

Liz sits up straighter for a bit. "Actually, I really do have a boyfriend."

I groan so loudly I'm surprised they can't hear it. Oh, no, Liz.

Liz can't lie. Not even a little. Not even to save her life.

She apologizes when she's bluffing in poker, gets restless when she's holding aces.

I once cooked butter chicken for her, and her eye twitched for ten straight minutes while she claimed she loved it and forced herself to swallow every bite.

So, what the hell is she doing?

Maura laughs, well, more accurately, cackles. "Okay, yeah, sure. Liz, you don't have to make things up. There's no judgment here. Just admit it, maybe you'll find the love of your life this weekend … like that barista over there."

The entire table is quiet and watching now. Discomfort mixed with anticipation. Like witnessing a car crash in slow motion.

Rochelle shakes her head. "Honey, if you were seeing someone, you would have mentioned it."

With a dramatic flip of her hair, Maura goes for the kill. "Okay, let's say you're telling the truth. Who is this mystery boyfriend? Does he exist, or is he from one of those romance novels you're always reading?"

Yeah, fuck no.

I take it back—not cacti— rottweilers!

That's it. This is worse than I thought.

I don't care if Liz wants me to stay quiet.

I'm not watching this anymore.

I set the tray down on a nearby empty table. Straighten my shoulders. Start walking toward them. Each step brings me closer to Liz, to her family, to something I can't take back.

I came here to support her through Maura's wedding hell, but Liz needs a shield, and I'm the only one who's ever protected her from these people.

Fuck it.

By 'these people' I do mean those closest and supposedly dearest to her. Family. So close they think social norms and barriers don't apply. Well, they do, and should, so I'm ...

... All in.

I step behind Liz's chair, a hand on the back, the other on her shoulder.

She jerks—startled—then melts under my palm. She knows my touch without looking.

All eyes are on us now. Maura's mouth opens slightly, surprise replacing her smugness.

I look directly at her. "Liz isn't lying. I'm the boyfriend."

Liz turns and stares at me like I just sprouted wings. Her mouth opens, but I squeeze her shoulder. Three quick pulses.

It's our "signal" to just trust the other person and go along.

Something we've been doing for eight years—when she had to rescue me from a bad date, when I needed an excuse why my project was late, when she was nursing a hangover and couldn't make it to class.

Liz can't lie … when she's alone—awful at it, transparent as glass. You can smell her lie from a mile away.

But with me?

We're bulletproof. We once spent an hour adding ridiculous details to an elaborate story, and I just know she'll come through right this very second.

Her hand covers mine, and she turns back to the table. When she speaks, her voice is steady. "I was going to tell you this weekend. We wanted to keep it between us for a while."

"You're dating Dean?" Maura's eyes narrow. "Since when?"

"Three months."

Liz smacks my hand lightly and tsks. "Almost four."

I look down at her. "Yeah, okay, but who's counting?"

There she is. The real Liz. The sweetest, most insanely beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. In my defense, none of this is planned. The initial goal was to rescue her from embarrassment, but now, I basically just go where our lie takes us. Our ebbs and flows can be exhilarating.

I lean down and kiss her cheek.

Her skin is warm under my lips, and she tilts her face toward me.

My mouth on her cheekbone. Smooth. Soft. I've wanted this for so fucking long it hurts.

Two seconds, just long enough to sell it.

I address the table, hand still on her shoulder. "We didn't tell anyone because of the distance. My flight schedule is hell. Didn't seem real until we could spend time together as a couple. But this weekend seemed right. With the wedding, everyone here."

Liz shrugs. "And I didn't want to take attention from Maura's weekend, but you keep pressing, sis. So, ... " another shrug.

I almost laugh out loud. Like I said, together, Liz and I are bulletproof.

Rochelle claps her hands once. "Well, this is unexpected but good news. Dean, we've always enjoyed having you around."

Maura is still suspicious as hell, and she casts a pointed look at Rochelle. "If you've been dating for months, why is this the first we're hearing about it? Mom tells me nothing, I know," her eyes dart back from Rochelle, "but Liz tells Mom everything."

Rochelle nods. "She does. Odd that she wouldn't mention something this significant."

Maura looks a little deflated. Unconvinced. Her eyes harden. She will pick at this all weekend. Make Liz miserable. Prove she's lying.

Liz needs something bigger. Something harder to dismiss. Something that will live rent-free in Maura's head and fester every day of her miserable life.

Then, damn, I remember. My grandmother's ring. Always around my neck. White gold, small diamond. Simple. Elegant. For the woman I'd spend my life with.

Gram gave it to me two months before she died. "For when you find her, Dean. You'll know when you do."

I've known since sophomore year. Since Liz fell asleep on my shoulder during a Statistics study session, and I realized I'd never feel this way about anyone else.

But…

This is insane.

A fake boyfriend is one thing.

Fake fiancé is—

Then again, this is my chance. Even if it's pretend. Short-lived. Even if it wrecks me when it ends.

I get to call her mine, touch her, maybe kiss her.

Fuck it.

We've grown so comfortable together, I've sweated on raising the stakes. That boundary between friendship and something more romantic has become like our own personal Great Wall. But suddenly, here's a chance to take a leap, so I'm ...

... All in.