Chapter 15 Kate
KATE
I COULD GET USED TO THIS (AND THAT’S A PROBLEM)
“They’ll chase you down until they know your name…” Kate Riggs
We barely make it out of the terminal before the cameras find us.
They swarm like wasps—buzzing, blinding, shouting questions I don’t even understand. I hear my name—Finn’s. The word wedding ricochets more than once. I grip the handle of my suitcase like it’s a weapon, my eyes wide, as if I’m going into battle.
And I suppose I am, sort of. Cameras. Shouting. Flashbulbs. I wonder if these people have been waiting all night just for a glimpse of us, just to snap a photo they can sell.
Finn takes my hand before panic swallows me whole. He holds it tight, like I’m the most important thing in his world. I don’t know what to think of him—of us—but I hold on anyway.
I feel like if I click my heels, I’ll return to Pine Hollow. But I know it’s too late to go back now.
And I’m not ready to go back—not yet.
Then the horde follows us, and I learn something new: I hate being pursued. This feels like reality TV unfolding right before my eyes.
“Kate, look here!”
“Did you really get married?”
“Finn, is it real or just for PR?”
My heart pounds as my eyes skim the sea of strangers. I didn’t sign up for this. Not like this. The paparazzi have a mob mentality, and it’s terrifying.
Finn’s hand stays firm in mine. And when he squeezes, it’s like he knows I need reassurance. He’s calm in the chaos.
“Eyes on me,” he murmurs, low and steady. I lock on to his voice. “I’ve got you.”
Just like that, he becomes my wall. A barrier between me and the feeding frenzy. A shield in designer shoes.
He shoves through the crowd like it’s nothing.
One arm around my waist, the other motioning for security.
Cameras flash like lightning. Reporters shout.
Someone grabs my sleeve. Finn growls—I’m not even kidding—and the next thing I know, we’re in a dim parking garage, and I’m being gently shoved into the back seat of a black SUV.
The door slams. Silence falls like a weighted blanket.
I look over at him. His breathing is hard, his jaw tight, but his eyes are still scanning the shadows like someone might follow us.
“That,” I say, breathless, “was... too much.”
He looks at me. “You okay?”
“I think I need a drink. Or a sedative.”
His lips twitch. “Wait ’til you see the house.” Then he flashes that sexy smile, and it’s like the last fifteen minutes never happened.
His arms wrap around me, and I slump against him, my ear to his chest. I listen to the steady beat of his heart. All of this is terrifying, but it pales in comparison to the comfort of being in his arms.
Oh boy. This isn’t just any fake marriage.
I’m in over my head. What am I going to do when he makes it feel this real? Like he actually... cares?
I don’t know what to do with those thoughts, so I shove them deep down, somewhere I won’t have to look at them.
Twenty minutes later, we pull through iron gates that open like something out of a movie. The driveway winds long and elegant. The manicured hedges are so neat they probably have a stylist. The lawn looks freshly brushed, like it was told to behave for my arrival.
Then the house comes into view.
Scratch that—estate. I’ve never actually seen one, but if they exist, this is it.
It’s not just big. It’s absurdly beautiful. Stone and glass with sleek, painted trim. The lawn stretches wide, like it’s daring the neighbors to compete. It looks both expensive and heartbreakingly lonely.
“Welcome to Maine,” Finn says as the car slows in front of a curved entryway. “This is home.”
He helps me out of the SUV, and I get my first close-up of the house. My mouth parts, but no words come out. Vaulted archways. Ivy crawling up the side like a work of art. A wraparound porch bigger than my entire apartment. The windows reach toward the sky.
Inside, it’s warm wood and cold marble. Soft lighting glistens off leather sofas. There’s a fireplace large enough to roast a small deer. The floors are so shiny I can see my stunned reflection blinking back at me.
Finn drops his bag at the base of the stairs and turns to me.
“You hungry? Tired? Or just completely freaked out?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “All three.”
He smiles—softer this time. Not that cocky grin that makes me want to bite him. This one? It touches me.
In places I usually wall off. In places, I don’t let anyone in. But he’s already in my safe space.
And damn if that’s not more dangerous than anything else.
He leads me through the house like I’m something precious, his hand light on the small of my back. We pass through rooms too beautiful to exist outside of a magazine—vaulted ceilings, gold-framed art, chandeliers that hum softly.
Then we reach the kitchen.
It’s cathedral-big, with slate counters and pendant lights hanging like jewelry. Natural light bounces off the steel appliances. This place whispers money with every polished surface. Nothing is out of place.
“I’ve never seen this much food outside a grocery store,” I murmur.
He grins and opens what I think is a pantry. Nope—it’s a fridge. A whole room of cold storage. Gourmet cheeses. Tiny gold-lidded jars. Edible confetti?
“This is... what is this?” I breathe.
He chuckles. “Cold storage heaven? It’s a sub-zero fridge.”
“You can have anything—everything,” he says, suddenly serious. “Anything you need—just tell me. It’s yours.”
His words hit me sideways. This jet-set life—the estate, the cameras, him—is overwhelming. I lean against the marble island, blinking too fast.
He notices. Of course he does.
“Hey.” His voice softens. “Kate. You okay?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. The words feel foreign. “This doesn’t feel like my life. I don’t even know what to do with a house like this. A fridge like this. A... you.”
Our eyes lock. Then he steps in, placing a hand on my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek. His other arm gently wraps around my waist.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he says. “You’re already enough. You being here—that’s all I want.”
I look up at him. And for the first time, I let myself believe he might mean it.
Even if I don’t know what happens next, I know one thing: I’m not alone in this fake marriage.
We keep walking. I pass a baby grand piano and electric guitars mounted on the wall. A hallway lined with glass cases—helmets, hockey jerseys. A dining table big enough to seat the UN.
“Back home,” I say, trying to lighten the awe still stuck in my throat, “our double-wide was so small, you could watch TV, fry bacon, and brush your teeth all at once. I once set off the smoke alarm just thinking about toast.”
Finn laughs. “Then we’ll keep this place extra fire-safe. What happens if you think about me?”
“You don’t want to know,” I deadpan.
He likes that. I can tell by the way his hand moves to my back as he leads me down one more hallway. Then we reach the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
I stop short. A massive California king. Floor-to-ceiling windows draped in soft linen. A fireplace with a giant TV over it. Everything about it feels intimate. Too intimate.
It’s perfect. He’s perfect, like living in a movie. And suddenly, I am very aware I have no idea what happens next.
I turn slowly to him. “So... what exactly are the sleeping arrangements?”
Finn raises a brow. “That depends,” he says, voice low and effortless. “Do you want a separate room? Or are we sharing?”
My heart stutters. My mouth opens—then shuts again. I don’t have a safe answer. Not one that won’t get me in trouble, that is.
God, he’s beautiful. My panties are already damp just picturing the two of us in that bed.
I know I’ll never meet another man like him. I don’t want to say no.
I clear my throat and keep it light, even as nerves twist in my stomach. “Let’s see how it goes.”
I smile, but inside? Panic curls under my ribs. Because I’m not afraid of the bed. Or his body. Or what might happen.
I’m afraid of him. And how easily he makes me feel safe. How easily I could get used to him brushing my hair back, holding my hand when I’m scared, and kissing my fears away.
I’m afraid of this luxury, the passion, this us, and pretending to be the perfect couple because if I let myself settle into this—into him—I wouldn’t just fall.
I’d crash.
And when this fake marriage ends—like we agreed it would—I’ll be the one standing in the wreckage, trying to remember how to breathe without him.