Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Reese
“Big day,” she says, pouring herself coffee from the pot I’ve already made. “You ready for this?”
“To lie to a lawyer about being engaged to my college best friend who I haven’t seen in ten years until three days ago? Sure. Totally ready.”
“You’re a terrible liar when you’re nervous. Stop fidgeting.”
I still my hands, which were apparently drumming against the counter. “What if Bernard sees right through us? What if he asks for proof? What if—”
“What if you stop spiraling and go wake up your fiancée? He’ll be here at ten, and you two need to get your story straight.”
My fiancée. Audra. Who moved into the Mann Suite yesterday with an efficiency that was both impressive and terrifying, transforming the romantic space into some kind of command center complete with color-coded sticky notes outlining our “relationship timeline.”
“She made a spreadsheet,” I tell Taylor. “About our fake relationship. With subsections.”
“Of course she did.” Taylor grins. “God, she’s perfect for you.”
I want to argue, but the truth is, watching Audra organize our deception with the same intensity she probably brings to million-dollar weddings has been oddly endearing. She’s even created a shared document called “Our Love Story: Key Points to Remember” with bullet points like:
Reconnected when Audra arrived Wednesday
Realized feelings never went away
Reese proposed Saturday night by the lake (ring coming from family collection)
Small fall wedding planned (October for foliage)
Audra keeping her business but spending more time here
It’s thoroughly planned, completely logical, and absolutely nothing like how I’d actually propose to her if this were real.
“I should go get her,” I say.
“You should. But first, maybe change out of the shirt you’ve been wearing since yesterday?”
I look down. She’s right. I’ve been so anxious I forgot to change after yesterday’s maintenance work.
Twenty minutes later, showered and wearing clothes that Taylor deemed “appropriately fiancé-like,” I knock on the Mann Suite door.
“It’s open,” Audra calls.
I find her at the desk, surrounded by papers, already dressed in a sundress that makes her look soft and touchable in a way that her usual New York armor never did. Her hair is pulled back, and she’s wearing glasses I didn’t know she needed.
“Contact prescription expired,” she explains, catching my stare. “Forgot to renew it before fleeing the city.”
“They suit you.”
“They make me look like a librarian.”
“A hot librarian.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. We both freeze.
“I mean—”
“Ground rule number three,” she says, but she’s smiling. “No unnecessary compliments that could blur boundaries.”
“Calling you hot is unnecessary?”
“Calling me hot is dangerous.”
There’s something in her voice that makes my chest tight. Before I can explore it, she’s standing, gathering papers.
“I’ve prepared a brief for Bernard. Our timeline, how we reconnected, future plans. I’ve also researched New York’s requirements for marriage licenses in case he asks about logistics.”
“Audra.”
“I know we said October for the wedding, but if he pushes for sooner, we could say September. Though that makes the foliage argument weaker—”
“Audra.”
“—and we should probably discuss where I’m supposedly living. I mean, obviously I’ll stay in the suite for appearances, but Bernard might wonder why I’m not in your quarters—”
“Audie.”
I catch her hands, stilling their nervous movement. Her pulse flutters against my palms like a trapped bird.
“Breathe,” I say softly.
She takes a shaky inhale. “I’m fine. I plan events for senators and celebrities. I can handle one rural lawyer.”
“You’re doing this for me. If it’s too much—”
“It’s not.” Her fingers tighten around mine. “I said I’d help. I keep my promises.”
We’re standing close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something vanilla and expensive. Close enough to see the faint freckles across her nose that she usually covers with makeup. Close enough to forget this is all pretend.
A knock echoes from downstairs—the front door of the lodge.
“That’ll be Bernard,” I say, but don’t move.
“We should go.”
“We should.”
Neither of us moves. Then, suddenly, Audra stretches up and kisses me. It’s quick, barely more than a brush of lips, but it shorts out my brain completely.
“For luck,” she says, breathless. “And practice. We need to look natural.”
Natural. Right. Because there’s nothing natural about the way my entire body lights up from one barely-there kiss.
Bernard is waiting in the front parlor, a thin man in his sixties with sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
He stands when we enter, his gaze immediately cataloging everything—our joined hands (Audra’s idea), the way she leans slightly into me (not planned), the faint lipstick mark on my cheek (definitely not planned).
“Reese, Miss Gabriel. Thank you for making time.”
“Please, call me Audra,” she says, charming smile in full force. “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”
“Coffee would be lovely.”
She squeezes my hand. “I’ll let Taylor know. You two start—I know there’s probably boring legal stuff to cover.”
She disappears, and I’m left alone with Bernard, who’s studying me with uncomfortable intensity.
“She seems lovely,” he says finally.
“She is.”
“Rather convenient, her showing up just when you needed a fiancée.”
My chest tightens, but I force myself to stay calm. “Actually, it was the opposite. Seeing her again made me realize what I was missing. What I’d been missing for ten years.”
“Ah.” He pulls out a leather folder. “And she’s willing to relocate? Leave her business in Manhattan?”
“We’re working out the details. She’ll keep her partnership but base more operations from here. Destination weddings at the lodge, that sort of thing.”
“Clever. Mildred would have appreciated the business synergy.”
Before I can respond, Audra returns with a tray of coffee she must have gotten from the kitchen.
“Your sister is handling some kind of mixer emergency,” she says, setting the tray down. “But she did shout something about you practicing proposals on a pillow?”
“I’m going to murder her,” I mutter.
“No secrets between engaged couples,” Bernard says mildly, but his eyes are shrewd as he watches Audra settle beside me on the loveseat, her hand finding mine automatically.
The weight of his observation makes us both more aware of the contact, but Audra doesn’t pull away. If anything, she shifts closer, our thighs touching.
“She’s protective,” Audra says, pouring coffee with her free hand. “Worried we’re moving too fast.”
“Are you?” Bernard asks directly.
“No,” we say in unison, then look at each other, surprised by our own conviction.
Bernard takes his coffee, sits back. “Tell me, how exactly did the proposal happen?”
“It was Saturday night,” Audra begins. “After dinner. Reese suggested a walk to the lake—”
“—similar to walks we took in college,” I add, finding my footing in half-truths. “We used to talk about our plans, our dreams.”
“The moon was rising,” Audra continues, her voice softening. “And Reese started talking about how different life turned out from what we’d planned.”
“I told her that seeing her again made me realize what I’d been missing. Not what I’d been waiting for, but what I’d let go.”
“I told her it was her. It had always been her.”
I’m not looking at Bernard anymore. I’m looking at Audra, whose eyes have gone wide.
“And then?” Bernard prompts.
“Then he got down on one knee,” Audra whispers. “Right there by the water, with the stars reflecting on the lake. And he said—”
“I said I’d already waited ten years, and I couldn’t wait another day.”
The room is silent. Bernard clears his throat.
“And the ring?”
Audra holds out her left hand, where my grandmother’s engagement ring—the one Taylor mysteriously “found” yesterday—sits perfectly on her finger. “It was Reese’s grandmother’s. We’re having it resized, but I couldn’t wait to wear it.”
Bernard makes a note. “When’s the wedding?”
“October,” we say in unison.
“Small ceremony,” Audra adds. “Just family and close friends. Here at the lodge, of course.”
“Of course.” Bernard closes his folder. “Well, I’ll need some documentation—proof of engagement, wedding preparations, that sort of thing. Nothing invasive, just enough to satisfy the will’s requirements.”
“We’re actually meeting with wedding vendors this week,” Audra says smoothly. “I can send you copies of contracts.”
“That would be perfect.” He stands. “I’ll also need to check in periodically. The will requires the marriage to be completed by August 31st, or at minimum, proof that it’s imminent.”
“We understand,” I say, standing as well, keeping Audra’s hand in mine.
Bernard pauses at the door. “Your aunt was very specific about her requirements, Reese. She wanted to ensure the lodge stayed with someone who understood that it’s about more than just business. It’s about family. Legacy. Love.”
He looks between us, something shifting in his expression.
“I think she would have been pleased,” he says finally, and leaves.
The moment his car disappears down the drive, I collapse onto the couch.
“That was terrifying,” I breathe.
“That was easy,” Audra counters, but she’s also collapsed beside me. “He bought it completely.”
“The proposal story—”
“Was perfect. Very romantic. Good improv with the waiting ten years line.”
Improv. Right. Because I definitely wasn’t speaking from the heart or anything.
“We need to actually meet with vendors,” she says, shifting into planning mode. “Make it real. I’ll call some contacts—”
“Audra.”
“—get some quotes, maybe even put down deposits we can cancel later—”
“Audra.”
“What?”
“Thank you.”
She looks at me, really looks at me, and for a moment all the pretense falls away. “Reese, I—”
“Well, that went well!” Taylor bursts in, grinning. “Bernard totally bought it. Probably helped that you two were making actual heart eyes at each other.”
“We were selling the story,” Audra says quickly, standing. “I should go make those vendor calls.”
She’s gone before I can respond, leaving me with Taylor, who’s giving me her most annoying knowing look.
“Selling the story,” she repeats. “Sure. That’s why you looked ready to actually propose for real.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m just saying, for fake engaged people, you two are very convincing.”
Too convincing, I think, watching through the window as Audra paces the garden, phone pressed to her ear, gesticulating as she talks. She’s in full planning mode, creating our fictional wedding with the same dedication she’d bring to a real one.
The next few days blur together in a haze of staged photos for social media, vendor meetings that feel surreal, and constantly navigating the space between real and pretend.
We hold hands whenever we’re in public (for appearances).
We eat dinner together every night (to maintain consistency).
We take evening walks by the lake (because engaged couples do that).
And every moment, every casual touch and shared laugh, makes the line between fake and real harder to find.
“This is nice,” Audra says Thursday evening, as we sit on the dock watching the sunset. We’ve just finished a cake tasting—actual cake tasting, for our fake wedding—and she has frosting on her thumb.
“Which part?” I ask, watching her lick the frosting off and trying not to have impure thoughts about my fake fiancée.
“All of it. The quiet. The pace. You.” She leans against my shoulder. “I forgot what it was like to just... be.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Just being?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t know what we’re doing anymore.”
My heart pounds. “Audie—”
“I got an email from Cosmo,” she says quickly, pulling away. “He’s threatening to come up here if I don’t send proof of life that doesn’t involve spreadsheets.”
“You made spreadsheets on your sabbatical?”
“They’re relaxing!”
I laugh, and just like that, the moment passes. But later, when she kisses my cheek goodnight at her door—we’ve taken to this ritual, for practice, we tell ourselves—I feel the weight of everything unsaid.
“Night, fake fiancée,” I whisper.
“Night, fake fiancé,” she responds, but her eyes say something else entirely.
Inside my room, I find a text from Bernard: The photos on social media are lovely. Your grandmother would be pleased.
Attached is a photo Taylor posted—Audra and me at the cake tasting, her laughing at something I said, my face soft with an affection that has nothing to do with pretending.
We’re getting too good at this. Or maybe we’re not pretending as much as we think.
Either way, I’m in trouble. Because in fifty-seven days, this ends. And I’m not sure I’ll survive losing her a second time.