10. Jana
Ten
Jana
I t’s harder than you’d think, faking an engagement. Or not faking one, exactly, but making an engagement-on-paper seem like the real deal. For starters, this is a small town, and everyone in Starlight Ridge is neck-deep in each other’s business.
I’m serious. If you sneeze in the florist’s, an hour later in the bakery, someone else will ask if you have hay fever. If you check out a library book, some grandma will want to analyze the big twist ending with you in the line for the coffee counter.
Everyone knows everything, and that’s that. Starlight Ridge is no place to keep secrets.
“Scooch closer,” I murmur to Stig, trying not to move my mouth so much that people can lip-read. He shuffles his chair a few inches closer to mine, the metal legs scraping over the paving stones.
Honestly, even though it might sound claustrophobic, I’ve always loved the gossipy nature of this town. I moved here years ago, leaving the cold, bustling anonymity of the city. After a lifetime of being no one, just another stranger in the street, I freaking loved being in the loop for a change. Being included.
The town gossip sure makes things harder now, though, when there’s a sapphire ring sparkling on my finger and a fake engagement I need to sell as real.
“Laugh,” I say, still trying not to move my lips. “Act like I said something funny.”
Stig tilts his head, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. “You are being funny. Why are we acting like spies?”
Because it’s 3pm on a Sunday afternoon, and the Starlight Ridge town square is as bustling as it gets. Old folks push walkers between shop windows, squinting at the displays, while young kids run around their parents legs, whooping.
Neighbors stop to chat and music spills out of open doorways. It’s colder than summer, that’s for sure, and the watery sunshine isn’t enough to coax people out of their knit sweaters, but the local cafes have set tables outside anyway.
That’s where Stig and I are sitting: at a cafe on the corner of the town square, with a striped awning and scrubbed metal tables set out in the sunshine. Two mugs of coffee steam in front of us, and there’s a glossy brown slab of fudge cake with two forks.
We’re doing this. We’re on an official public outing as an engaged couple.
Time to polish off my non-existent acting skills.
“Try the cake.” Ignoring my bemused fiance, I fork away a generous bite of fudge cake, then heft it into the air. It’s so dense and moist and packed with chocolate fudge, I swear the fork sags in my hand. “Come on, Hansen. Try to look smitten while I feed you in public.”
“You don’t need to—”
A thick chunk of cake shuts him up, shoved lightning-fast past his lips, and Stig makes a muffled oomph noise before glaring at me and chewing.
There’s a crumb in his freshly-trimmed beard. I brush it away, trying and failing not to catalog the sensation of his surprisingly soft beard against my fingertips. His jaw flexes as he chews.
After a long time, Stig swallows and swigs from his coffee.
“That,” he says, clattering down his mug on the metal table, “was a lot of cake in one bite. Now, why are you acting insane?”
Because I’m jittery as hell around this man, tied up in nervous knots, and it only gets worse as the days go by. The only brief comfort I’ve had is when we held hands the other night, walking home from Flint’s in the darkness, when all this nervous energy settled down inside me and I finally felt calm. Safe.
But Stig hasn’t tried to touch me once since that night.
Oh god, why hasn’t he tried to touch me? Doesn’t he want to? Does he see me as just a friend and fake-wife?
“Because this is our first ‘date’ in public together as an official couple,” I say, “and we need to make it look real.”
A pigeon struts over to our table, pecking hopefully at the paving stones beneath.
Stig slides the cake closer to me. “It’ll help if you stop saying ‘date’ with air quotes, then.”
I blink down at the sticky brown fudge icing, sudden queasiness twisting my insides. I’m the one who picked this cake from the glass counter, asking for the biggest wedge possible, and now the thought of eating a bite makes my belly churn. It’s been like this for days.
Don’t want to eat.
Don’t want to drink.
Ever since Stig moved back into the cabin— his cabin—I’ve barely slept, either. Too busy tossing and turning and chewing my nails to anxious stubs. I’m a mess.
“Go on,” the adventurer says now, coaxing me with that low, rasping voice, his gaze fixed on mine. “You practically drooled all down your front when you saw this cake inside. Try a bite, Jana.”
I tug at the neckline of my green sweater, then reach for the other fork. It trembles in my hand as I cut away a much smaller bite.
“There you go,” Stig murmurs. His blue eyes are narrowed, and he watches me with complete focus as I lift the cake to my lips. His own mouth is turned down behind his beard, his features etched with concern, and it occurs to me for the first time that he might have noticed me not eating. That he cares . “Atta girl. It’s good, right?”
The fork slides past my lips. Sweet, fudgy, chocolatey goodness spreads across my tongue, and I hum with relief as my stomach settles. Nodding quickly, I chew and reach for my coffee, already planning my next bite. More icing, for sure.
The distant sounds of chatter and music and the ringing bells of shop doors seep back into my consciousness—and wow, for a minute there, it was like the only things that existed in the whole universe were the two of us and this giant wedge of cake. Now I’m swallowing and sipping coffee and glancing around to find a few locals watching us, nudging each other and whispering.
Okay, it’s on. Go time.
Our best chance to really sell this caper.
“Kiss me,” I blurt, flushing hotter than lava the second the words leave my lips. Stig jolts straighter in his chair, like I just hit him with fifty volts to the chest. “Doesn’t have to be fancy or anything. Just a peck. But make it look real.”
Frosty blue eyes slide to the side, taking in our audience, and understanding filters through Stig’s expression. He clears his throat, shifting on his chair. Honestly, I’m surprised that spindly little thing can hold up his muscled bulk at all, because the metal squeaks in warning every time he so much as breathes.
“Are you sure?” Stig reaches over to cup the side of my face, and my cheek presses automatically into his hand. Like we’ve done this before a thousand times. Like we were made for this.
I wet my lips, heart banging. “Uh-huh.”
Stig leans forward slowly. So freaking slowly—like there’s a chance in hell I might change my mind. The pigeon coos beneath the table, pecking at my boot, and the smoky autumn breeze ruffles my hair. Stig’s chair squeaks, and his warm breath mists against my lips.
Can’t look away. Can’t breathe. Can’t even blink.
It’s finally happening. Finally .
Then—
Crunch.
“Motherfucker!” Stig lurches out of his twisted chair, only his lightning-fast reflexes keeping him from hitting the ground. The pigeon explodes from beneath the table in a puff of threadbare feathers, and someone nearby shrieks with cut-off laughter. The gossipy buzz around us gets louder.
I stare up at my shocked fiance, then down at the mangled chair, its legs splayed, then back up at him.
Stig breathes hard, chest rising and falling beneath his gray knit sweater. He’s more shaken up than I’ve ever seen him—and you’d better believe I’ve watched every single adventure film of him online.
“What the fuck,” Stig says, nudging the chair with his boot.
I burst out laughing.
He gives a rueful glance at me; a harder kick at the ruined chair. The metal scrapes against the paving stones, and now we’re really making a scene. But who cares?
Can’t stop laughing, even though my sides ache and tears brim in my eyes. Even though everyone’s looking now, telling each other what happened in hushed tones, cutting off their snorts when Stig glances over.
“Should’ve filmed it for your channel.” Moving gingerly, I push my own chair back and stand up too, still giggling. “That was an adrenaline sport right there. One of your closest calls.”
Stig digs the heels of his palms into his eyes and shakes his head. Secretly, I love when he covers his face like that, because I can look my greedy fill, staring wistfully at his strong arms, his lean waist, his muscled chest. “Kill me now.”
“The gods have spoken.” Reaching for the cake plate, I break off a small piece of chocolate sponge and sprinkle it on the ground in case that pigeon comes back. “No fake kisses for you.”
Stig drops his arms. “Fuck that.”
I barely have time to wipe my fingertips on my jeans. Barely have time to glance up, breath hitching, eyes going wide, before—
“ Mmph. ”
Stig claims my mouth with his own, his beard tickling my chin, and I sway into his arms. The heat, the rush, the roaring sound in my ears—it all messes with my balance and knocks my body into his.
That’s my excuse, anyway, for how I arch against Stig and press every inch of us together, my arms hooking around his neck.
He grunts and kisses me again, deeper this time. We sway together on the edge of the town square, buffeted by a pine-scented breeze.
My jaw clicks. My heart slams against my ribs, so hard that Stig can probably feel it through his sweater. And there’s nothing shy about this kiss; nothing practice or pretend.
If this is a peck , I’m an alien from outer space.
My breaths are shaky as Stig pulls back an inch. All I can taste is coffee and chocolate and him.
“Sorry,” he mutters, so quiet only I can hear. “Was that—?”
I push higher onto my toes, claiming his mouth for another head-spinning kiss. Stig growls with approval and slips his tongue past my lips.
Yes.
Could float up to the sky right now. Could float all the way up to the cosmos.
We stand there kissing for a few minutes—or a few hours. I’m not sure exactly how long. But enough time passes that when I finally settle back on my heels, my lips are reddened and raw and our gossipy neighbors have lost interest and moved on.
My knees shake. I’m hot and squirmy beneath my clothes.
And the pigeon is back, feasting on the dropped crumbs beneath the table. As I turn and look at it, dazed and still leaning against Stig, the raggedy little bird flaps up to land on the table and peck directly at the cake.
“Oh.” My voice is faint.
“I’ll buy you another slice.”
Has Stig always sounded that husky? That strained?
I shake my head and step backward out of his arms, shivering as the cold breeze swirls around my body and beneath my sweater. The sky is darker than when we got here, the evening closing in, and I’m rocked by the sensation of time passing me by. An opportunity slipping past my fingertips.
“We’re closing in five,” a voice calls from the cafe doorway. A hard-bristle brush scratches rhythmically, sweeping the floor behind us, and I nod, though I can’t bring myself to turn and meet the woman’s eye.
“Okay, thanks,” I call.
“Jana,” Stig says, but I can’t look at him either. Not now, when my body’s still burning up beneath my clothes, and my insides are quivering from all the want he brought up in me. Not when I’m slick and swollen and aching between my thighs, desperate for more of this man that I’m only pretending to be in love with.
Or maybe I’m not pretending. Not anymore.
But either way, it’s still just a marriage on paper. Just some bet . I mean, who gets married for a bet? What is that about , and why haven’t I asked him yet?
God, I can’t think straight, not with Stig’s gaze on me and the cold wind cutting through my clothes and my lips raw from a dozen hungry kisses we shouldn’t have shared. I wrap my arms around my waist, hugging tightly like I could hold myself together, and try to sound normal as I say: “Shall we head home?”
“Jana,” Stig says again, not buying my act for a second. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
The laugh bursts out of me, bitter and strangled. Doesn’t he know? Can’t he tell by now?
Because I’ve bought my own bullshit. Fallen for my own con.
And none of those kisses were fake for me. Not one.