Chapter 12
Twelve
ZAHRA
Warmth. Steady, solid warmth.
A slow heartbeat under my cheek, the scent of cedar and something distinctly Oliver threading through the air. The rise and fall of his chest matched my own breathing. A quiet, peaceful rhythm.
Safe. Secure.
Right.
My eyes fluttered closed again.
Then awareness crashed in.
My entire body went rigid, my eyes flew open, and I let out a silent curse.
The pillow wall had one job, and it had failed spectacularly.
Instead of being on my designated side of the bed, I was tucked against Oliver's chest, my head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around me, his breath a soft rhythm against my hair.
The pillows that had been so meticulously arranged the night before were scattered across the bed and floor, casualties of unconscious movement.
I knew I should move, disentangle myself from this compromising position, but I let myself linger, savor it for a moment longer.
The subtle scent of his soap, clean and cedar-like, mingled with the plush hotel bedding, the rise and fall of his chest, and the quiet intimacy of it all felt unnervingly right.
Then he shifted in his sleep, drawing me closer. The blanket moved with him, my gaze slid downward automatically, and—oh.
Oh.
Heat flooded my face. Definitely time to extract myself from this completely inappropriate position.
I tried to slide away, only for his arm to tighten, fingers flexing like he was trying to keep me close. A sleepy murmur, warm breath against my temple.
"Five more minutes."
Like he meant it.
I was in serious trouble. Part of me wanted to give him those five minutes, wanted to pretend this was real, wanted...
The professional part of my brain finally kicked into gear, and I managed to wiggle free, careful not to wake him. The last thing I needed was for Oliver to realize how we'd spent the night.
As I pulled away, he made a quiet, almost reluctant noise in his sleep, turning toward the space I'd vacated as if seeking my warmth.
I did not think about what that meant.
I escaped to the bathroom, leaning against the door and trying to get my racing heart under control.
This was just physical proximity, I told myself. Natural biological responses. Nothing more. We were two adults who happened to gravitate toward each other in sleep. It happened all the time. Probably.
The mirror revealed my flushed cheeks, tousled hair, and eyes that were a little too bright. I looked exactly like someone waking up from an unexpected night with?—
Nope. Not going there .
I took the world's longest shower, letting the hot water wash away the lingering sensation of Oliver's arms around me. By the time I emerged, wrapped in one of the hotel's plush robes, I felt more in control. Professional. Composed.
That composure lasted exactly three seconds.
Because while I was hiding, Oliver was building.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, not simply reconstructing the pillow wall—we were past that now—but, rather, he was engineering a full-blown fortification. Additional towel barricades. A layered reinforcement structured like he was preparing for an invasion.
The man was drafting blueprints in his head. And he was ignoring me.
"Good morning," I said, aiming for casual and missing by about a mile.
He was forced to acknowledge me then, and our gazes met briefly before we both looked away, a silent agreement to never discuss this morning’s failure of what we’d convinced ourselves had infallible architectural integrity.
"Morning," he replied, suddenly very interested in a particular pillow arrangement.
His hair was rumpled from sleep, a hint of stubble shadowing his jaw, and something about the serious concentration on his face as he reinforced his pillow fortifications made my heart do a complicated little flip.
I busied myself gathering clothes from my suitcase, hyperaware of Oliver's presence just a few feet away.
"I have to meet the bride and make sure she's settled in okay," I said, retreating to the bathroom to change. "I'll be back in two hours to get you for the meet and greet."
Oliver just nodded, still focused on his pillow project. "I'll be ready."
It wasn't until I was safely in the hallway, brunch dress draped over my arm and door firmly closed behind me, that I allowed myself a small smile. Even his embarrassment was endearing, which was definitely not a professional thought to have about my fake boyfriend.
I was still smiling when I stepped out of the elevator at my cousin's floor—until I nearly collided with my aunt.
"Up early," Auntie Maryam noted, her sharp gaze flicking from my slightly flushed face to the elevator doors closing behind me. "Sleep well?"
I cleared my throat, plastering on a polite smile. "Of course. Such a great hotel; the perfect venue for Pari's wedding."
She hummed, unconvinced.
"I hope you’re able to concentrate on the wedding, dear," she said, voice silk-soft but sharp as a blade. "It would be such a shame if Oliver proved...distracting. Ruining your reputation, at a family event, no less." Her smile was all polite concern, but her eyes? Calculating.
My stomach turned. Her words struck deeper than worry. There was a warning there, a hint of disbelief that Oliver would ever forgive me for what happened in high school. But before I could defend him, she smiled. Too sweet. Too knowing.
"I'm sure things will turn out exactly as they're meant to." She patted my cheek and walked away, leaving a chill in her wake. "See you at the mixer."
The words clung to me, cold and heavy. A warning wrapped in silk. I exhaled, the tension coiling tighter. This wasn’t just about selling the lie to my family anymore. Auntie was waiting for Oliver to slip, poised to push Ryan as the perfect replacement.
I needed to get my act together. Fast.
Because if I didn't? My professional reputation would be the least of my problems.
Parisa was still in her pajamas when I knocked on the door of her bridal suite, her hair wrapped in a towel and a cup of coffee in her hand.
"You're early," she said, letting me in.
"I wanted to check the final mixer arrangements before the vendors arrive."
She raised an eyebrow, studying me over the rim of her coffee mug. "Uh-huh. And it has nothing to do with escaping your hot boyfriend and that honeymoon suite? Because you're looking particularly... flushed this morning."
"The elevator was crowded," I lied, busying myself with my planner.
"Right." Parisa grinned. "So, how's it going with Oliver? Because from what I saw yesterday, that man is not playing around."
I kept my focus on the mixer planning binder. "We're taking things slowly."
"Slowly?" Parisa repeated, laughing. "Is that what we're calling that kiss at the airport? Because honey, that was not 'slow.' That was a man staking a claim."
The memory of Oliver's lips against mine, of his hand at my waist, sent a wave of warmth through me. "It's...complicated."
"Isn't it always with you two?" Parisa flopped onto the couch. "I remember how heartbroken he was when you stopped talking to him in high school. Poor boy looked like someone had stolen the sun from his sky."
I froze. "What are you talking about? Oliver was the one who stopped talking to me."
Parisa frowned. "That's not how I remember it. After the homecoming dance, you were suddenly all about Ryan, and Oliver just...faded away."
Something in my chest clenched.
No . That wasn’t how it happened… Was it?
"That's not—" I stopped, realizing Parisa didn’t know. Until I arrived with Oliver, she was still team Ryan. Her soon-to-be husband was Ryan’s golf buddy, close enough to appoint him as a groomsman. As far as most of my family was concerned, I had matured out of my and Oliver’s friendship into a relationship with Ryan.
Only, I never wanted to give up Oliver. I was forced to. "It wasn't like that."
Parisa shrugged. "All I know is one week you two were inseparable, and the next, he was sitting alone at lunch. But hey, looks like you figured it out." She grinned. "And that honeymoon suite seems to be working its magic."
I didn't correct her. Couldn't, without explaining the entire history, which would cause ripples I wasn’t ready to deal with. It had been kept a secret for this long; it could stay buried for a while longer.
"The meet and greet brunch starts at eleven-thirty," I said instead, redirecting the conversation to safer territory. "Darryl's parents want to meet with you beforehand to discuss the final seating chart for the rehearsal dinner."
Parisa groaned. "Future in-laws. Joy."
We spent the next hour going over the day's schedule, the flower arrangements, the seating charts. Then we got dressed, did each other’s hair and makeup, just like when we were little, when things were simple.
It was a welcome distraction from thoughts of Oliver, from the lingering sensation of waking up in his arms, from the way his sleepy voice had murmured "five more minutes" like he'd been dreaming of me.
By the time I returned to our suite, I'd almost convinced myself that this morning had been a momentary lapse—nothing to worry about. I was a professional. I could handle this.
I knocked lightly before using my keycard, giving Oliver fair warning of my return.
The sight that greeted me had me stopping short.
Oliver stood by the window, adjusting the collar of his light blue button-down shirt.
He’d left the top two buttons undone and paired the shirt with tailored charcoal slacks, casual yet polished.
His hair was neatly styled, his glasses catching the light.
He looked effortlessly elegant—the perfect balance of relaxed and refined.
A far cry from the rumpled, pillow-wall-building man I'd left two hours ago.
"You clean up well," I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere in the vicinity of breathless.
He turned, his eyes widening slightly as he took me in. I'd changed into a simple emerald sundress for the mixer, nothing particularly revealing, but the way his gaze lingered made me feel like I was wearing couture.
"So do you," he said, his voice a touch lower than usual.
For a moment, we just stood there, looking at each other, the air between us charged with unspoken awareness. Then Oliver cleared his throat, breaking the spell.
"I've been reviewing the guest list," he said, all business again. "Ryan is scheduled to arrive tonight."
The mention of Ryan's name was like a bucket of ice water. Right. That’s why Oliver was here—to keep Ryan at a safe distance.
"Thank you for the heads-up." I smoothed my dress, mentally shifting into work mode. "Dinner will be crowded enough that we shouldn't have to interact with him much."
Oliver nodded, picking up his navy sports jacket from the back of a chair. "Ready to face your family?"
"Ready as I'll ever be."
As we headed for the door, Oliver's hand settled at the small of my back, a gesture that was becoming familiar. Comforting, even.
"Zahra?" I turned to look at him, suddenly aware of how close we were standing. "About this morning…" he started, then seemed to think better of it. "Never mind. We should go."
He was right. Whatever had happened, or hadn't happened this morning, wasn't important. What mattered was getting through the next two weeks with our arrangement intact.
Even if a small, treacherous part of me wondered what he'd been about to say.
Even if I couldn't stop thinking about the comfort of waking up in his arms.
Even if I was beginning to suspect that pretending to be in love with Oliver Beck might be the easiest role I'd ever played.
But none of that would make a difference if it all fell apart. Because, despite how I framed Oliver’s role, he wasn’t just a buffer.
He was a shield.
A borrowed one. An unsuspecting knight in shining armor. Only this time, he wasn’t on a quest to fill my world with pink crayons.
In a few hours, Oliver would have his first battle with my personal monster.