10. It Sounds Like I’m Dying
Tatum
“Next month, we’re celebrating the ten-year anniversary of Dovell Donuts with a huge party!” Zoya spreads her hands for emphasis. “And I need a photographer, so who better to hire than my new donut blogger’s fiancé? It’s meant to be!”
I blink, trying to process her words. “Wait, you want me to be the photographer for your party?”
No freaking way. An event that big would have to pay well, right? AND I’d get an insane amount of exposure. Which would mean more clients. I might have my photo studio come next year.
“If that’s something you’d be interested in,” Zoya says with a smile. “Maybe you can come by here tomorrow around one with a portfolio and we can work out an agreement. Skye can give my number to you.” She lets out an airy sigh. “But right now, I’m starving, and those hash browns are calling my name. It was so nice to meet you, Tatum. And, Skye?”
Skye squeezes me once more, only this time I feel like a human stress-ball. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t ma’am me,” Zoya tells her with a faux-stern look, “I swear that terminology summons gray hair.” Her expression then becomes giddy. “The ring is gorgeous, Skye! It really gives you a bride-to-be-glow .” She proceeds to wink at her. “I’m glad I finally got to see it. Tatum explained that you two wanted to keep the engagement under wraps for a little bit, and I don’t blame you at all. There’s something romantic about keeping a relationship intimate.” She gives her congratulations to the both of us, and then excuses herself before slipping into the conference room.
“We need to talk!” Skye hisses, grabbing my hand.
She tugs me away from the conference room—along with the delicious smell of coffee—and leads me toward the opposite direction of where we first came from.
“Where are we going?”
I get my answer a few moments later when she opens a door at the end of the hallway.
A door that says Supply Closet .
“Skye, what the—”
“In,” she orders, jabbing a finger at the closet. “Now.”
I raise an eyebrow at her as I step into the closet, and then she also steps inside before closing the door. For a split second, I’m thrown into the memory of that party we went to back in middle school. The party where we first met.
Everyone was playing one of those “closet games” and I randomly got paired with Skye. Once we were both in that dark closet though, Skye made it very clear that she didn’t like the idea of kissing someone just because a stupid game said so, and she only came to the party with hopes of making some friends because she was new to Port Reina. As I’ve mentioned before, I was far from being a ladies’ man at twelve years old, so I played it safe. I told her that I didn’t want to kiss either, then I offered to be her friend. We both turned our phone flashlights on, officially introduced ourselves, and started talking like we had known each other forever. Well, until the other kids started pounding on the door because they wanted to make out.
Skye flicks a light on, reminding me that she dragged me into the office’s supply closet, and now I’m wondering what her coworkers would think if they saw us come in here together.
Correction: I know what they would think.
Dang, is it warm in here.
“We don’t have engagement pictures, Tatum!” she states the obvious. “And now she’s expecting to SEE THEM! What the frick are we going to do?”
“Stage some?” I offer the only idea I have. “Maybe Dria can help us with it.”
I’ve done engagement photoshoots before, but I can’t exactly model and take our pictures at the same time.
“Do you think that would work? I know you’d rather stay behind the camera…”
“Very true, I’m not model material, but I’ll make an exception this one time.”
She snorts at that. “You’re so full of it. You have like, the most perfect smile for pictures, Jacobs.”
It’s just a friendly compliment . Don’t get any ideas .
Too late.
“What are you going to tell Zoya?” Skye asks, looking at me expectantly. “About the party gig?”
Normally, I wouldn’t hesitate with an opportunity like this. But there’s strings attached. Skye’s job is intertwined. Our fake engagement plays a huge factor too.
“I want to tell her yes …” I reach out to let my index finger wrap around one of her curled pink strands. “But I know it’s not going to make this whole faking thing any easier.”
“Tate, you have to do it,” she drawls, resting her hand over my wrist. “This party would be so good for you. There’s no way you can pass it up.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “I won’t let you pass it up.”
I really hope she didn’t notice the way my pulse just jumped. “That means at least three weeks of pretending that we’re engaged.”
She shrugs a shoulder. “I’m pretty sure Cynthia’s transfer should be happening around the same time anyway, so it makes sense. If you take the job, we’ll both benefit from this fake relationship.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, letting my finger slip from her hair. “Because I can turn the offer down. I’m okay with turning it down. Other opportunities will come, Pink Stuff.”
“I’m positive .” Pure determination shines in her eyes. “I want you to take the job.”
“Then I’m taking it.”
“Good.” She proceeds to point a finger at me. “We’re supposed to be a happily engaged couple, and that means no fighting.”
“Well, I—”
“Shh!” she shushes me, covering my mouth with her hand. Then she uses her other hand to slap the light switch, plunging us into darkness again.
Is it weird that my first thought is how good her hand smells?
Like vanilla mixed with a hint of honey.
My second thought is more rational: why the heck did she turn the light off?
“I heard voices,” she whispers, as if reading my mind, and then she slowly moves her hand away from my face. “Sorry. I freaked.”
Her eyes are laser-focused on the door as some kind of mumbled sound comes from the hallway, but all I can do is stare at her . Sure, it’s kind of hard to see her clearly in the dark, but those long eyelashes are impossible to miss, no matter the lighting.
Also, were we standing this close to each other a second ago?
Her shoulder just brushed against my chest. It wasn’t intentional, of course, but I can feel my heart wanting to speed up anyway. And just like that, this isn’t a closet anymore—no, it’s a furnace . Because being this close to Skye, alone in the dark, is going to get me burned.
“Skye,” I manage to say, cringing at the hoarseness of my voice.
“Yeah?”
Oh good, maybe she can’t tell that it sounds like I’m dying.
“You still hear them?”
“I think they’re coming this way,” she answers, her voice becoming panicky as she turns to me. “What could someone possibly need in here right now?”
“Maybe they’re just going to walk by,” I try to sound optimistic for her sake.
She’s so fricking close that it actually hurts.
“They probably need something from another room.”
“What if they don’t ?” she snaps as the voices seem to get closer. “Tate, we both know what the assumption would be if we’re caught in here together with the light off.”
I swallow, grateful that she’s not able to see my reaction. A furnace seems like an understatement now…
“Wait,” she says with a slight laugh, “how dumb can I be? This is perfect! What better way for us to sell that we’re engaged than being caught in a closet together?”
In theory, I know she’s probably right, but I don’t think it’s a good idea.
I know it’s not a good idea.
“I just want to grab some file folders because I know I’ll forget about them if I wait,” a woman says, her voice clearly audible from the other side of the closed door.
“Tatum,” Skye whispers, moving even closer to me, “pretend that we’ve been kissing!”
Before I can even process her words, she guides my arms around her waist and then cups the back of my neck. Her rushed actions cause my nerves to go into overdrive as they buzz with some level of uncertainty, but I decide to just go with it. Without thinking twice, I tilt my head to the side and lean in until my nose brushes against hers. She lets out a shaky breath, and I almost choke, wondering if her reaction is because of whoever’s in the hallway, or if it’s because of me, and how close we are.
No, no, no, no —
The doorknob rattles, and then the door is wide open, letting light in from the hall.
I yank away first, needing there to be space between us, and the redhead standing in the doorway makes a sound of surprise.
“Oh my gosh!” she yelps, a hand flying to her mouth. “I’m so sorry!”
“You’re fine, Holly.” Skye twists the ends of her hair, as if feigning embarrassment. “We just…wanted a few minutes alone.”
“Skye!” The dark-haired woman standing next to Holly looks up from her phone with a gasp. “I didn’t know you had a man !”
“Uh, yeah,” Skye drawls, slipping her hand into mine. Her skin is so soft . “Holly and Kym, this is my fiancé, Tatum.”
Fiancé. Right.
“That’s right,” I say, giving our clasped hands a little squeeze, “I’m the lucky guy who gets to marry this…pink-haired goddess.”
I regret my words even before Skye grips my hand as a silent scolding. Why the crap did I say that?
Too much. Way too much .
In my defense though, I never said I was smooth now as a twenty-three-year-old.
I mean, my last serious relationship was almost a year ago, so I’m a little out of practice.
“Oh, Tatum,” Skye addresses me with a tight smile, “you and your compliments .”
Yep, I can read between the lines.
Note to self: calling Skye a “pink-haired goddess” is over the top and uncalled for.
LESS is more.
Even if you want more.