The Fiance Dilemma (The Long Game #2)

Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“What’s gotten into you, Josie Girl?”

I shifted my glaring from the bowl I had clasped against my chest to the man in suspenders. “My egg whites. They’re not stiffening.”

Grandpa Moe frowned at me. “That’s what has you sounding like a grizzly?”

No. But also, yes. “Is your show done?” I gritted, restarting the whipping motions of my arm. “The tiramisu is, as you might be able to tell from the alleged growling, not ready yet. Now if you don’t mind…” I pointed to the door with my head.

“Isn’t it supposed to rest in the fridge overnight?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, the motions of my wrist turning aggressive. It was supposed to do that, yes. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Grandpa looked unimpressed. “But—”

“No buts,” I hissed.

“Josie—”

“I am fine. I am—”

He stomped his foot. “Put that whisk away before you hurt yourself, girl!”

My arm came to a stop. I was panting. Heaving. Much like three nights ago, in the tub, when— No. Absolutely not. I was not thinking of that. Not now and preferably not with Grandpa Moe present. “I’m in perfect control of my whisk,” I announced, bringing my breathing down. “And my life, by the way. Before you ask for the one thousandth three hundred and forty-eighth time if I’m okay. I am. I’m so okay and so in control that it’s not even funny. And these egg whites are going to be subjected, dominated, and… fluffy as hell. In time. You’ll see.”

Grandpa Moe’s expression softened. There was no pity in it, just concern. Which wasn’t a relief, not really. It just made Grandpa one more person I was trying not to preoccupy and hurt with my doings. Or to show how I felt about Andrew’s announcement. About December first. The wedding.

Only Grandpa I hadn’t been able to avoid for the last three days.

“Look around you, honey,” he said. I didn’t. I knew exactly how around me looked. He continued anyway, “The kitchen is a mess. There’s not an inch of any surface that’s not covered in lady fingers, bowls of coffee, cocoa powder, or egg splatter. This is just tiramisu. You’ve done far more elaborate recipes and made it look easy. Remember the croquembouche?”

I inhaled. “This is not just tiramisu. I baked the lady fingers. From scratch. I brought special beans from Josie’s Joint for the coffee. I’m using the best quality mascarpone I found available in the county and I’m whisking the whites manually. I’m—”

“It’s still not croquembouche.”

“Stop saying ‘croquembouche.’?”

Grandpa’s nostrils flared. “Nah. Croquembouche.”

“Grandpa—”

“Croquembouche,” he repeated.

Jesus Christ. “You’re unbearable.”

“And you’re cranky,” he pointed out. “You’re a crankembouche.”

My teeth gritted. “Are you five?”

“I wish,” he grumbled.

And he reminded me so much of Matthew in that exact moment that I felt my irritation slip away. Because that was what thinking of Matthew did to me now. It made everything else melt away. Which wasn’t good. Not right now. Not after that night.

Grandpa tutted. “You’re acting like the fools in my show. Only it’s no longer entertaining watching you. It’s just painful at this point.”

“Gee, thanks,” I murmured. “And don’t worry. I’m not about to go around giving away long-stem roses to random men.” I already did that in a way, my brain filled in. And I had to shake my head, physically ridding myself of the thought.

He shrugged, unconvinced. “This thing’s messing with your head. The tiramisu, but also the video and the goddamn wedding. I don’t like it.”

I put the bowl and whisk down and crossed my arms over my chest. “Nothing’s messing with my head,” I lied.

Except maybe orgasms. And fine, a wedding day that was less than a month away. And the internet going absolutely bananas over a ten-second clip. And Andrew, and Bobbi, and Willa Wang and— Maybe Grandpa was right.

“What’s in the pantry, then?”

I scoffed. “Pantry stuff.”

“Oh yeah?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. I knew what was currently hanging from one of the racks in the pantry. I simply couldn’t explain why they were there. Or how Grandpa found out they were there in the first place. Had he seen me carry them down the stairs?

Grandpa’s lips thinned. “Just call Matthew already. It’s been a hellish three days with that woman calling at all times and driving past the house. I’ve run out of excuses and I’m annoyed. At the very least she should be annoying Matthew and you. Not me.”

“Well, that’s mature and not at all selfish,” I deadpanned.

“You’re the one being a little selfish, honey.”

Well, ouch. I leaned my hip on the counter and moved some of the ladyfingers around, pretending that hadn’t affected me. Was I being selfish? “Am I being selfish?”

“Ghosting is always selfish.”

A gasp escaped my throat. “How do you even know what ghosting is? And I’m not ghosting Matthew.”

Grandpa Moe arched his brows. “I know plenty. And you got the boy wrapped into this whole thing and now, what? You’re not talking to him?”

“My phone died. I had to put it in rice. It’s a miracle it came back to life at all. And I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe a little worried, but okay.”

“I saw him yesterday, power walking through the edge of town while he glared at the ground much like you were at those egg whites.”

My chest squeezed. He’d been power walking? While glaring at the ground? What did that mean? Was he—

Grandpa continued, “It’s my duty to point out that you’re not doing yourself any favors. Whatever reason you think you have is idiotic.”

“I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t dislike him. And if I can cut the boy some slack, so can you. Now do that before he resorts to trespassing with some boom box on his shoulder and makes a fool out of himself.”

I huffed out a laugh. But it was bitter. “As if he’d ever—”

The doorbell rang.

Grandpa Moe smirked. “He’d better not be bringing any music with him. I paused right at the rose ceremony and I’d like to watch who Emmanuelle leaves for last. In peace.”

With that, he whirled around and left, giving me no choice but to get the door myself.

My insides played tug-of-war, a part of me hoping it’d be him, and another one dreading the idea that it would. It was so silly. I was being so silly.

Objectively, I knew nothing needed to change after our phone call. That I had asked him to distract me in the first place, and that there were plenty of things to prioritize before this. Like that stupid wedding announcement Andrew made at the midnight farmers’ market and what that meant for me. Matthew. Us. Everything, really.

We don’t get married but stay friends.

That was one of the rules.

And now… Now what? Could we even keep doing this, seeing each other, talking, without breaking any of those statements?

How did one stay friends after what had happened? How could we stay engaged and not get married but stay friends after the other night? Maybe Matthew had had casual relationships, casual sex, but I hadn’t. Not ever. So I didn’t know if I could put it all aside and act like he hadn’t given me an orgasm. A mind-blowing, toe-curling orgasm at that. Like I hadn’t moaned his name on the phone. Now I didn’t know if I could see him and not think of that. All because I’d been upset and it seemed like the world had been crumbling on me.

You’re important.

You have me.

And there’s nothing about you I want to fix.

There’s nothing about you that needs fixing.

You have me, my brain was stuck on. But did I? Not only did I not know what to do with that, but I no longer knew if I did have him.

He’d said all those things before I’d begged him to distract me. Before I’d let him believe that distraction was all I wanted from him. It wasn’t, but what if I’d hurt him? Confused him? Annoyed him? What if Matthew wanted out now that he’d had time to think? Now that everyone believed he’d be standing at an altar on December first, waiting for me? I’d understand, I really would. I was no longer sure if I could do this whole engagement thing myself. This silly fiancé dilemma on my hands that I’d taken way too far. I’d been so selfish. Just like Grandpa Moe accused me of being. Just like I’d done so many times, to so many men.

That was why I’d been hiding.

Because Sam and Nick were right, I was a runner, and therefore, this is what I did best.

Another knock on the door made me notice that I’d been standing there, staring into space.

I squared my shoulders. Clasped the knob. Turned it.

It’ll all be fine. You’ll say hi. He’ll reply with a small smile, because that’s the man Matthew is. Good, kind, no matter what. Would you like to come in? I think we should talk.

Matthew’s eyes met mine.

My breath caught.

His mouth twitched. But it wasn’t a smile. “Ah… fuck, Josie.”

Ah fuck, Josie indeed.

He looked so handsome in front of me. At my door. Right here with me. Should I make small talk? Follow that with a joke? Oh, the plan had been to—

“You can’t avoid me anymore,” he said. “Please.”

Straight to the point it was. I couldn’t complain, really. It was one of the things I liked the most about him. “I wasn’t trying to avoid you,” I answered, voice weak, the lie rolling off my tongue. It was one of the things I liked the least about me. At least lately.

“I went on a mental health walk.”

That chipped at the armor I was set on keeping around my chest. That was what Grandpa had meant, then. He’d seen Matthew on that walk. Hearing him say the words didn’t sit well with me. It made the sour taste at the back of my mouth even more sour. Mental health was important. My kitchen covered in mascarpone cheese and egg splatter was proof of it. “Did it help?”

Matthew’s jaw clenched. Then he pulled something I’d somehow missed from behind his back. “I made you a pie.”

The armor clunked to the floor. “You did what?”

“I made you a pie.”

My chest went warm and cold, soft and tender, exposed to everything he’d say now. My words were nothing but a whisper. “But no one ever bakes for me.”

“I do.”

He did.

Every ounce of fortitude and stubbornness in my body melted away with those two words. Every fear that had kept everything inside me so taut, so high-strung, as if ready to break, receded from view.

Matthew made me a pie. I’d been here, hiding, for three days, like the coward I was, letting him believe things I didn’t really think, but that I couldn’t put into words, and he’d showed up at my door with a pie he’d baked for me.

“Let me in?” he asked.

A broken breath left me, and I hoped to God that I wasn’t going to cry, because it’d be so silly. This was just pie. Matthew stepped forward, as if in response to that thought. The side of the tray brushed my shoulder. It smelled like apples and cinnamon. He reached out with his hand, his thumb swiping across my cheek. When he brought it down, there was a splatter of what had to be egg white clinging to his finger.

“Tiramisu,” I murmured. “That’s my version of a mental health walk.”

Matthew’s eyes flashed with understanding. Something else too. “Let me in, Josie.”

I knew that if I told him to leave, he would. I also wondered if the words meant more to him than just stepping inside my house. They probably did, and that was fair. I wouldn’t turn him away, though. I didn’t think I could, as scared as I’d been and was still.

“I think we should talk,” I said, just like I’d rehearsed in my head. I moved to the side. “Take a seat in the living room, please. I’ll bring the plates.”

Matthew’s apple pie was fantastic. A little too much lemon for many, but I liked my apple desserts more sour than sweet. Although maybe sitting down to eat hadn’t been the best idea. Because now, dangling off a corner of Matthew’s lips was a tiny crumb of caramelized pastry. So small I was only noticing it because I’d been fixated on his mouth.

The little moans he made while he cleaned off his plate.

It was truly unfair how much he loved to eat and how happy it made me to watch him.

“What’s in the kitchen, Josie?”

My eyes flickered up his face. No glasses today. “Nothing special besides the mess left after a failed dessert.” And the four hangers currently hooked to a rack in my pantry. “Why?”

“You’re stealing glances at the kitchen door. And you asked me to wait here. You said ‘please.’?”

“Just manners.” I stood up and walked to his end of the couch before retrieving the empty plate from him. “And the fact that I’m a thoughtful host who wants her guest to be comfy,” I added, stacking it on top of mine.

Matthew tugged at the hem of my cardigan, and I glanced down at his face. “You were wearing this the night I got here. After you changed.”

My heart skipped a beat. I made myself smile, but it was probably strained. “It’s my cozy cardigan. I wear it when the mood hits.”

“The mood,” he murmured. His thumb and index fingers moved around the fabric. I watched him shake his head as if making up his mind about something. “So is that what I am now? A guest?”

Here it was, then, the moment I’d been avoiding. The conversation we’d been tiptoeing around while we had his pie. The topic that had been keeping me awake at night, filling me with just as much anxiety as the fact that the whole town—my community, my father, my sister and my friend, the world—believed we were getting married on December first. Or how my reputation was now set in stone. Online, thanks to Page Nine. Confirming what everyone thought of me. All thanks to an anonymous editor’s submission.

“You should tell me what you are,” I finally said.

His brows met for an instant. But it wasn’t in confusion, I didn’t think. It was determination. Unlike me, Matthew never shied away from saying things like they were. “I’m Matthew. I’m your fiancé.”

Are those two things the same? I should have asked.

“Even after that night?” I said instead. “Even after everything that’s changed?”

Matthew came to his feet. “What has changed?”

The nearness of his body overwhelmed me. Like it had never before. In a good way. A way that made me want more. To tug at his sweater. Flick my fingers across his cheek. Hear his voice close, words falling on my ear. This was what I’d feared. “There’s a clip of me in a wedding dress, jaw slack and eyes crazy, as I run away from a beautiful yet packed winter wonderland ceremony.” I averted my gaze. “I go so far as to stomp on the bouquet. Even if accidentally. It was a beautiful one, and those flowers didn’t deserve that.”

Soft fingers touched my chin, pushing up. I met his gaze. “There was a waterfall, Josie.” His jaw clenched. “Right behind that fool. How could you not run away like that? He couldn’t have known.”

He had known. But so had I. “My phobia didn’t fully kick in until that day. And I was convinced I could do it. Greg worked really hard at an eight-week plan to correct it with meditation. We were both sure it’d work.”

“You don’t correct a fear,” Matthew countered with a frown. “You change the fucking venue.”

“It was his dream to get married in a place like that.”

“His dream should have been getting married to you.”

I felt myself pale at his words, as if they had somehow opened my eyes to something I’d never seen. “Thank you,” I murmured. All that tenderness in my chest expanding, eating away at every ounce of space. “That’s a nice sentiment.”

He stepped a little closer, boots moving forward until he was occupying all of my space. “I’m not being nice.”

My eyelids fluttered shut at how good he felt standing so close. “Then what are you being? Because I thought you’d be in a panic, honestly. I thought—”

“I’m sorry, for one,” he said. And when I reopened my eyes there was something I didn’t like on his face. Something I hated seeing there. “I shouldn’t have pushed you like I did when you were very clear about not wanting to talk.”

I felt myself part my lips. “What? No. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Then answer my question, please.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “What’s changed? Because I need to know. I’ve given you space now, and I’m done doing that. I’m…” He let out a strange laugh. “I’m needy, I guess. I’m not cool enough to act like I don’t care, when I’ve been moping around. No. Fuck that. I’m cool enough to admit I have. I made a playlist. For the walks. There was more than one. I watched all the seasons of Bridgerton. And Christ, that show is so goddamn good. It made me cry several times. I want to read the books now.”

My lips twitched. I tried so hard to stop that, I really did, but I… God.

“You’re smiling, Josie. It’s beautiful.”

A small puff of air left me. “You made me a pie.”

No one baked for me. No one ever had. Not since Mom.

“A good fucking pie,” he added.

My smile turned bigger. Sappier. Probably uglier. “You’ll have to give me the recipe.”

“No.” He gave his head a shake. “I’ll make you another one.”

A strange wave of emotion rose, making my eyes… sting. And I—God. I couldn’t cry. It didn’t even make sense. Focus, Josie. Focus. I let out a shaky breath. “What do you want to do? Things have changed since we talked about our plan. There’s… December first. And Andrew invited everyone in town. I… haven’t talked to Bobbi, or been online, or answered my phone at all, but I guess the world knows about that now. Adalyn must hate me. Or think I hate her. Cam is probably furious.” I shook my head. “I had Grandpa Moe check in on them to make sure she was feeling better. But I’m still a horrible sister.”

“I talked to her,” Matthew said. “To Cam too.”

“You did?” My heart sped up. “To tell them what?”

Matthew’s exhale was long and deep as the air left his nose. “That Andrew blindsided us.”

Us. A breath caught. So he hadn’t just talked to Adalyn and Cam. He had for the two of us.

As if sensing I needed to hear more, he continued, “That we never planned for the date to be so soon, but Bobbi went behind our back. That they’re doing whatever serves the narrative, independently of what we want. That you were so caught off guard by that and the clip, that you needed a few days to unplug and recharge. That being in the spotlight is new for you, and you’re overwhelmed. That you were barely even leaving the house, let alone talking to anyone, and that that’s so out of character, I was scared and basically running circles around the place, making sure no one bothered you. And that unfortunately included them.”

My voice barely came out. “Were you? Running circles around the house?”

“I wanted to.”

But he hadn’t. Yet, he’d still made sure to keep things under control. Everything I’d neglected by hiding and curling into a messy, egg-splattered ball.

A strange sound bubbled up my throat. It was relief, I realized. Plain and simple. Overpowering, eye-opening relief. “We’re four days short of a month away. From December first,” I said. “That would scare me.” And it did.

There was a flash of surprise in the light brown of his eyes. The specks of green. “I agreed to this. I told you I’d do it. So give me some credit, yeah? I’m not going to have a change of heart and back down because Andrew makes some speech.” An exhale left him. “I don’t like or trust Bobbi, but she’s good at what she does. She had the video taken down.” His expression sobered, and he didn’t need to say the words. Although the damage has already been done. “Let’s give her room to act.”

I thought about that for a brief moment, but… “You’re right. I guess it doesn’t make a difference whether we call things off now or four weeks from today.”

Matthew’s answer was a nod.

“What… What about the other night?”

“What about it?”

“We…”

His hand rose, the backs of his fingers grazing the side of my neck, brushing my hair back. His head dipped. “You came,” he said in my ear. Just like I’d craved him doing minutes ago. Every night for three days straight. “Saying my name. It’s all right, we say things like they are.”

I stumbled over my words. Thoughts. The wave of heat washing over me. “Yes. It has to change something.”

“Has to or you want it to?”

The way he’d asked me reminded me of that night too. He always managed to give me a choice, the choice, no matter how or what. “I don’t want it to change anything.”

“Then it won’t.” He leaned back a little, watching my face. “But I think I want a revision of the rules.”

Grandpa’s words returned, making a splash. You got the boy wrapped into this whole thing. I had. And now he was asking for some control.

“Of course.”

“We add a new rule.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“I distract you, Josie. From whatever’s bothering you. Whatever’s making you doubt who you really are and what we’re doing. That’ll be my job.” His voice lowered. “Whenever you can’t, I take control. I won’t wait for you to ask. That’s my rule.”

Words from that night made it hard to answer him right away. Nudes. Jokes. A distraction. My dirty mouth. Is that all you want from me, then? I let him believe that. Of himself. But if I told him he was far more than that to me, he’d ask me what. What else am I, then? And I didn’t know how to answer that. All I knew was that the idea of Matthew, here, so close all I could smell was him and apple and cinnamon from baking me a pie, would make me say anything so he’d stay. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeated. “Now, you show me what you’re hiding in the kitchen.”

I didn’t even try pretending he meant the tiramisu. Clearly, he meant what I was really hiding. I was such a bad liar, truly. “Follow me, please. I guess that at this rate you were probably going to see them anyway.”

Matthew followed me as I navigated the chaos that was my kitchen—that to his credit he ignored. And when I came to a stop, right in front of the pantry, he did too. Right behind me.

I took one deep breath, then threw the double doors open with a ta-da. Although the moment I turned around and looked at Matthew, I realized how much of an overkill that had been. This wasn’t a fun, light ta-da moment.

“I was planning on donating them,” I explained, glancing back at the pantry. “Today. That’s why they’re here. Although I think I chickened out at some point between hanging them here and getting wrapped up in my failed tiramisu.”

It took Matthew a beat to speak, but when he did I knew, just by the way his voice changed, that his eyes were now on me. “These are your wedding gowns.”

They were. They are. “You asked me to show you.” I made myself smile. “Do you think it’s strange I kept them?”

He frowned. “No. I—” A gulp of air left him. He shook his head. “It’s not. I think it’s something you would do.”

“Are you saying my place is cluttered? That I might have a hoarding problem, perhaps?” I teased.

His chuckle was huffed out. And boy, did it alleviate some of the pressure in my chest at how out of sorts he’d just looked. Even if he didn’t give me much of an answer.

I got it though. He didn’t owe me one.

It was my turn to speak. “I’ve kept them,” I said. “Because they’re my wedding dresses. And as much as they’re a reminder of bad or rash decisions, and hurt, and yes, also heartbreak, they’re still memories of a time I was happy. Hopeful. In love, even if for a little while. That’s also why I kept the rings. It’s not like I have any of them on display or anything. I just like knowing they’re here. Relationships end, and whether you’re the one leaving or the one being left behind, the one thing that you can’t run away from are the memories. They’re part of you; they deserve better than to disappear. These dresses are like a weird, twisted version of a photo album. That take up a lot of space.”

Our eyes met, and I wondered what he saw. What was he thinking right at that instant? I was no longer insisting and asking whether he was spooked and wanted out. Not after we’d just talked about it. Not after he’d showed me I still had him.

“Will you give me a tour?” Matthew finally asked.

“Of my dresses?”

“Of your past. Your memories.”

Matthew made something everyone seemed to see as a problem sound beautiful. Or maybe he reminded me that that was how I’d always seen it.

“Yes,” I told him. “I think I can do that.”

And in a strange way, I also wanted to. Not because it was the least I could do, but because I wanted to do it with him.