5. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Emma
“O h my gosh, I am so, so sorry!” I mutter on repeat as I frantically search for paper towels. I’ve ruined Jonathan’s expensive pants—the kind I can’t even dream of replacing.
“Well, this is a fine way to spend the evening,” Jonathan grumbles, his hand awkwardly covering his crotch, now spotted with orange juice. He glances down at the stain, then back at me with a baffled expression.
At last, I snatch a roll of paper towels and rush over, dropping to my knees in an attempt to blot at the mess.
“What are you doing?” Jonathan barks, stepping back as I scramble after him, towel in hand.
“I’m trying to clean the stain off you, you dolt—even though, honestly, this is practically your fault!” I shout, attacking his crotch with the paper towel. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I fumble with the fabric, my fingers brushing over the stubborn wrinkle near the stain, refusing to smooth no matter how gently I try.
“How is it my fault that you lack basic motor skills? Or do you hate me so much that you ruined my clothes on purpose?” he snaps. His words twist my heart and I clear my throat, desperate to explain.
“You make my hands shake,” I confess, voice trembling. “Your confusing, hurtful words make me unsure when you’re being cruel or…something else.”
“My confusing words?” Jonathan repeats, arching an eyebrow.
I nod and let out a hoarse laugh. “Don’t act like you’re clueless. You’re mean one minute, and then you say things that send butterflies through my stomach. And I…I don’t like it.”
I try dabbing his pants again, but as my hand brushes against him, a wave of mortification crashes over me. Jonathan exhales heavily, his jaw tightening as if holding something back.
“Emma, I—” he starts.
“Save it,” I cut him off, angrily tossing the paper towel aside. “This isn’t working; the damage is done. I can’t believe I ruined your pants.”
“Emma, it’s just orange juice,” he murmurs, though his glare says otherwise.
“It’s still a stain,” I insist, staring at it. My cheeks warm as I fidget with the fabric, willing the stubborn wrinkle to smooth out, though my flustered hands don’t seem to help.
Jonathan clears his throat. “Emma, y—”
Before he can continue, Reed bursts into the kitchen. His eyes widen at the sight of us—Jonathan standing stiffly, legs awkwardly apart, while I kneel far too close to him.
My face flames as I scramble to my feet. “It’s not what it looks like! I—I just spilled juice on him!”
Reed muses, “Well, that’s one I’ve never heard before.”
Jonathan shoots a look between Reed and me, and I wish I could sink into the floor, mortified by the absurdity of it all.
“Look,” Reed chimes in, chuckling as he tries to break the tension, “I don’t care what you two are up to, but I have a proposition.”
I close my eyes and count to three, willing my heart to steady. But all I can think about is Jonathan. I should feel nothing but annoyance -- maybe even repulsion. Instead, a traitorous warmth unfurls through me.
Jonathan clears his throat. “What are you proposing?”
Reed grins. “You should marry my sister.”
I nearly choke. “What?”
Jonathan’s eyes widen in horror. “You can’t mean that. Don’t do this to me.”
I shoot him a glare. “Really? Is it so terrifying to imagine marrying me?”
“Absolutely.” He nods, looking more distressed than amused.
I roll my eyes. "Reed, if this is about what you just saw, trust me—I have no intention of repeating that disaster. I mean, sure, I accidentally touched him, but that’s it."
Reed’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “I promise it has nothing to do with that little mishap. It’s because you, dear Jonathan, need saving. You need to be seen as responsible. And since you told everyone you’re engaged, a fake marriage is your only way out.”
I snort. “I can’t imagine you ever being responsible.”
Jonathan glares at me, and Reed continues, “He needs a fake wife to convince the lawyer and the board that he’s fit to take over the company.”
“So you want me to be his fake fiancée? Have you lost your marbles, Reed?” I retort.
“And when did I ever agree to let you dictate my life?” Jonathan interjects.
Reed grins broadly, clearly having orchestrated this long in advance. “Emma, what better inspiration for your writing than a situation like this? Consider it a story unfolding in real time.”
“I write murder mysteries, Reed, not a romance about a fake marriage,” I say dryly.
Reed shrugs. “Then write one where the fake wife ends up murdering her husband.”
That idea—vicious, dark, and oddly tempting—makes me feel a tingle of delight. Jonathan, however, looks alarmed.
“Don’t give her ideas. She’s already daydreaming about murdering me,” he warns.
“But I haven’t done anything,” I remind him.
“She won’t say yes, so why bother asking?” Jonathan says.
“You don’t speak for me,” I snap. “I’m here, and I can decide for myself.”
Jonathan edges closer, closing the gap. My breath catches, and for a split second, the world feels smaller, as if he’s the only thing in it. “So are you saying yes? Will you marry me—fake or not—and even kiss me with those poisonous lips of yours to seal the deal?”
My breathing slows as I meet his gaze. For a moment, doubt flickers in my mind, my heart pounding as I weigh the insanity of it all.
But instead of backing down, I hear myself say, “Maybe I will. Maybe it’ll inspire me enough to finally write my next book.”
I feel every breath he takes, a torrent of conflicting emotions—anger, frustration, and something painfully tender—that I try to shove aside.
“It’s settled then!” Reed claps, drawing us both out of the tension. The clap makes Jonathan step back, and I finally exhale. “You’ll take my sister as your wife, fake or not!”
Jonathan mumbles, “You seem to enjoy torturing me.”
I shrug. “I haven’t made up my mind. I’ll think it over. I don’t just hand out favors.”
“Of course, Emma. Take your time,” Reed says, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes, as if he’s already picking out a wedding dress.
***
After what feels like an eternity of debating Reed’s ridiculous idea, I need a break. Later, at Mia’s café—my sanctuary when the world feels too tight—I sink into a booth. Mia greets me warmly. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages! And we barely talked after Jonathan interrupted us a few days ago.”
I groan. “Don’t mention him, Mia, or I might really have to murder him.”
Mia chuckles. “You’ve only been back a few days, and he already has you all riled up. What’s up?”
I shrug. “Long story. Do you have something strong for me to drink?”
“Like a triple-shot espresso?” she offers.
“Stronger—something that’ll make me forget Jonathan for a minute,” I tease.
Mia gasps. “This is a café, not a bar!”
“Fine, then make it the strongest coffee you’ve got,” I mumble.
After a moment’s thought, Mia smiles. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Watching her craft my drink, I think about Reed’s absurd proposal and how ludicrous it all sounds. A fake marriage? Tying my name to Jonathan’s? The mere idea makes me shudder. It’s too much to handle by myself, so as Mia makes my drink, I explain the ridiculous situation, expecting her to immediately tell me it’s a terrible idea.
Mia catches my troubled gaze when I’m done speaking, and she doesn’t look as horrified as I expected. “Will you help him out, or say no because the thought of being married to Jonathan makes you want to run?”
I lean forward. “I honestly can’t imagine a world where I’m tied to him, even if it’s pretend.”
Mia’s smile softens. “I know you, Emma. You’d say no if you weren’t curious. Sometimes you just need to embrace your curiosity.”
I roll my eyes. “Mia, that’s as cryptic as Reed’s schemes. I guess I’ll have to figure it out myself.”
Before long, I leave the café with a decision forming in my mind. It’s absurd—but maybe, just maybe, this farce will spark the inspiration I’ve been desperately seeking.
I take out my phone and call Jonathan. When he doesn’t answer, I grab my bag and head for the bus to his office.
The towering building looms large—a stark contrast to the small-town charm of Grover Hill. Inside, the lobby is intimidating: modern, austere, with furniture that seems almost alive. I swallow hard and approach the receptionist’s desk.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for Jonathan’s office,” I say.
The woman in a sleek pencil skirt barely glances up from her phone. “And you are…?”
“Emma,” I reply.
She rolls her eyes. “Look, miss, I’m not paid to show people around here. You don’t exactly belong.”
I glance down at my worn jeans and plaid shirt, suddenly hyperaware of every scuff on my shoes and the judgmental gaze of the receptionist. Maybe I don’t belong here after all. “Just point me to Jonathan’s office, and maybe I won’t mention how rude you were.”
She laughs. “Who do you think you are?”
Before I can reply, a familiar presence fills the space behind me—close, too close. Then Jonathan’s voice cuts through the air, smooth and authoritative. A shiver runs down my spine as my pulse stutters, my body betraying me before I can steel myself.