Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bobbi Shark drummed her nails against her arm as she stood in front of us.
She was making my ass cheeks sweat, frankly.
The flush covering my body like frosting over a birthday cake had nothing to do with the strange heat wave hitting Green Oak in the middle of October. I’d been sweating since last night, when Bobbi had called for a meeting to strategize.
The woman appraised us some more. Gaze bouncing from me to Matthew, then returning to me. We were sitting shoulder to shoulder on twin chairs, lined up right in the middle of Josie’s Joint—which I’d closed at noon just for this. On a weekday, by the way. So not only was Bobbi making me lose precious bodily fluids, but also, good rush-hour income.
“Fine,” she finally said.
“Fine,” I repeated. Carefully, and feeling like I was talking back to the principal after being called to her office. “But what do you mean exactly? Is it a fine fine or a fine not fine ?”
“Fine means fine,” she countered.
“I know what it means,” I said. “But what do you mean?”
“I mean fine,” Bobbi said again.
“But a fi—” I started.
Matthew’s palm fell on my leg, the contact severing my speech. The warmth of his skin seeped through the thin fabric of my silk skirt. “Neither of us are mind readers,” he said. “Thankfully. So how about you explain to us what exactly is fine? Or why we’re here? Or the objective of this impromptu meeting you’ve called?”
“You two,” Bobbi deadpanned. “You look okay together. I’d make some changes, but not many. Would you consider Botox?”
Oh God. “I don’t think—” I started, but stopped myself. Why was I so freaking nervous? And were my wrinkles so bad? “That’s not really—”
“Neither of us needs Botox,” Matthew interjected. “Next topic.”
I all but slumped in my chair, relieved he’d taken the lead. Matthew tapped my leg with a thumb, in some kind of reflex or code I couldn’t crack, and then he retrieved his hand. The patch of skin where it had been felt strangely cold, but that was good. Great. For the best.
Bobbi resumed talking and I crossed my legs and arms in an attempt at giving her the impression I was chill and not a nervous wreck. But it was hard to pay her any attention when I felt so off, so fidgety, as if I couldn’t stop turning and twisting in my seat. I returned my two feet to the floor and clasped my hands in my lap.
Something sparkled under the light, and I immediately glanced down.
The ring.
Matthew’s ring.
Mine now, for all intents and purposes. The ring was on a strange loan whose length hadn’t been discussed yet. Or terms. Which reminded me we should, after this, and which didn’t change the fact there was a ring on my finger.
It wasn’t the first time I’d worn one, or the second, or even the third. It was my fifth. And yet it felt like all that experience counted for nothing. Matthew’s ring was, without a doubt, beautiful. Unique, and so different from any other engagement ring I’d ever been given. Distinct in that way only a piece of jewelry with personality and soul could be. I wasn’t a fool, I’d known the moment I’d pulled it out of the pouch—after recovering from the shock and saying a very loud thank you for picking it up from the cleaners, baby —that it was a Claddagh ring. It bore some modifications to the original design, but it had been obvious enough for me to recognize the crown and hands clasped around a heart whose space was replaced by a stone. And topped by a crown lined with much smaller ones. Even if the detailing was minimal, and the elegant band was thinner than the typical one.
The ring begged too many questions. Starting with: Why did Matthew have one around in the first place? Or, in what way was Matthew connected to Irish symbology and tradition? And ending with a long list of other unresolved mysteries that revolved around him giving me his ring instead of getting a new one. Which was what I’d been planning. Eventually.
Bobbi cleared her throat.
Cheeks flushing, I ripped my eyes off my finger.
“Earth to Josie,” Bobbi said with an unimpressed grimace. “I know all you want to do is stare at your hand, show the girlfriends, daydream of Blondie in a tux, handwrite your vows into perfection, or I don’t know, scroll down Pinterest to create the perfect wedding board. But we have ground to cover. And I’m going to need your full attention.”
“I scrapbook,” I countered, out of anything better to say. “Scrapbooked, for my other, ah, projects. I like manual labor far more than staring at a screen, in case you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t.” Bobbi’s lip curled. “And you won’t need a scrapbook for this.” Bobbi produced an iPad. “You’re going digital. That’s why I need both your iCloud addresses. I’m syncing you to Bobbi Shark’s Ultimate Wedding Planner. You need to treat this as your new Bible. And before you ask, no, there’s no printable. And yes, you’re welcome for bringing you into the twenty-first century. Just remember this moment when I give you that last push down the aisle and you think, Damn, I wish I could marry Bobbi instead.” She frowned. “Although with your track record, you better not think of any such thing. You walk down that aisle, not up.”
A shout came from behind us.
“For the last time, there’s no pushing nobody down nowhere. Matter of fact, there won’t be any aisle at all if I have a say in it!”
I didn’t need to turn to know that Grandpa Moe, who had insisted on fixing a nonexistent problem with the window lighting while I was closed, was holding some tool he didn’t need and glaring at us.
“Does he need to be here?” Bobbi asked me.
“I’m changing a bulb,” Grandpa Moe complained.
“With a hammer?” Bobbi said.
“I’ll change bulbs however I please to,” he huffed out. “And this is my Josie, and this is her shop, so I’ll stay if I want to. And there won’t be any aisle-pushing unless she wants it. Is that understood?”
We all stared at the man, face serious and chest heaving.
Guilt and concern surged deep in my belly. Grandpa had lived through all my previous engagements, and it hadn’t been fun for him to watch me… navigate my way out of them. This was in many ways worse than a conventional engagement, because he knew the truth about Matthew and me. He was the only person who did. And he was doing a poor job concealing it.
I summoned a reassuring smile. “How about you go back to work, Moe Poe? I promise we have it handled over here. And if at any point we don’t, I’ll call out for you.”
That seemed to appease him enough to give me a nod and return to his alleged work.
“Back to iCloud details,” Bobbi continued. “You can give them to me or I’ll get them myself. I have my ways and asking is just the polite approach.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Matthew shake his head. A whiff of his cologne hit me in the nose. Cedar and a touch of something I couldn’t catch. It was nice. And I liked it. It was also unimportant that I did, so I rattled my details off before I was sidetracked again, and Matthew followed my lead.
In seconds, our phones pinged with twin notifications.
“Excellent,” Bobbi said. “Now, this is not just any calendar, this is B.S.’s Ultimate W.P., which is what I prefer to call it. I know it’s unusual for a PR strategist, but I’m also your wedding planner.” She grimaced. “Apparently. Everything is linked to a checklist, log, diary, record, budget—which is only a reference, we can go higher—and everything you need to know.” She flipped the screen, tapping quickly in different spots. “Here. Here. Here. Here. Here. And here. Your homework is to go through it, read it, process it, assimilate it, and embrace it. You’ll have to sign an agreement to confirm you understand and concur with everything disclosed. Nothing strange, considering I suggested an NDA that Andrew immediately shot down. So. Questions?”
Huh. All of them. “Why do we need a—”
“Awesome, no questions,” she cut me off, her fingers decidedly flying over the device again. “Now that that’s out of the way. Have you settled on a date?”
Matthew grunted something unintelligible, shifting in his seat.
Something clattered to the ground from Grandpa’s corner.
“A date?” I repeated, my stomach swooping.
“For the big day,” she countered. “I’ve set a temporary one in the planner. One that suits us. But I’m open to discussion.”
My body turned to, well, stone. Not ice, because I was still sweating. Either way, I went very, very still. It really amazed me how I’d jumped into this without thinking things like rings or wedding dates would obviously be discussed. “No date,” I croaked. Bent my lips upward. “Let’s stick to the temporary one for now, please.”
“Music to my ears,” Bobbi declared. Crisis averted. “That’s December first.”
And back to crisis land. “That’s less than two months away,” I rushed out. My ears started ringing and I was almost sure I was between one and three seconds from dropping to the floor. Bobbi’s eyes narrowed, and suddenly Matthew’s arm was there. Resting on my back. “You’ll fix it, right? The press situation? The… narrative.” I found enough strength to say. “Before we get to that day. I’d… rather avoid rushing this. It’s supposed to be a special day.”
Although the truth was that I couldn’t chicken out. Not after convincing Matthew it was all fine and having us lie to everyone.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” Bobbi countered. Her head tilted to the side. “You can stop panicking. The news that you’re happily engaged and Andrew is part of it will probably put out most of the fire.”
I let out some of the air that had been squeezed in my lungs. “Okay,” I said, focusing on the slight reprieve and not on the fact that Matthew wasn’t speaking. He was probably fuming. This wasn’t what we’d talked about.
Bobbi continued, unbothered. “Now, speaking of putting out fires, I’m going to need you to set your socials to private, and I want access to all the pictures you two have together. Dates, weekend trips, mirror selfies, domestic shots… anything but nudes. And most importantly, your proposal shots.”
Well, crap.
“No, no,” she tutted. “I don’t like that face. Please, don’t tell me all you have is mirror selfies. No one actually wants to see that.”
I blinked at the woman, realizing with urgency that I’d definitely miscalculated and underestimated this whole thing. Anxiety blossomed, and I did what I do when that happens. I smiled. Big and wide.
“What is your mouth doing?” she asked me.
Matthew’s hand returned to my leg, which was bouncing. But before I could begin to process the weight or the warmth of his palm, or how the fidgeting had stopped under it, he said, “No.”
Bobbi’s brows arched. “Pardon me?”
The tension thickened in an unexpected way, and I didn’t think, I just acted. It was time to get the control back. “We lost them,” I said. “To hackers. We were hacked. You know as careful as one tries to be, they’re sneaky. They tricked me and before I knew it, my gallery was poof. Gone. It happens to the best of us. All the hard copies were lost, too. In a fire. It was horrible and—”
“And we’re private,” Matthew said, fingers squeezing my knee. “We’re not giving you access to our memories just because you ask. That’s what no means. We don’t want to and it’s our decision. The only reason Josie was not telling you this is because she has manners. I don’t. I say shit like it is.”
Bobbi’s expression was… strange. As if she wanted to fling her iPad at Matthew, but she was also impressed. “All right, Blondie. But don’t forget Andrew’s putting a lot into this and you’re getting a free ride on the wedding of your dreams. So you get to draw some lines, but I’m still in charge.” A pause. “You’ll take new pictures. That’s my compromise, and I’ll forget about that hacking story or why Josephine has been looking like a deer in headlights since taking a seat.”
Had I?
I turned to look at my fiancé, as if looking for the answer to that. But Matthew was busy holding the woman’s eyes. For a long time.
He squeezed my knee.
Oh. “Yeah, okay.” I let my hand rest on top of his. Sandwiching his fingers against my thigh. They twitched. Tapped. “New pictures sound like a reasonable compromise.”
The atmosphere in the coffee shop relaxed with my words. And when Bobbi’s phone rang and she excused herself with a, “I’ll be right back,” before moving to the back, it improved exponentially where tension was concerned.
“Ugh,” I said, turning to look at Matthew. “Thank you for that.”
He sat back on his chair, letting his shoulders fall but keeping his hand exactly where it was. On my thigh. Under my palm “Place is cute,” he said. “Really charming and cozy,” he added with the tiniest smirk. “Very Josie.”
Very Josie. Did that mean he found me cute? Charming? Cozy? They weren’t the worst things to be. “Of course it is,” I muttered. “I’m in charge and I have excellent taste.”
His lips twitched. “Cocky. I like that too.”
Too. I tipped my chin up. “Not cocky. Just confident. Cute and charming decor is in my skills repertoire.”
He dipped his head, only slightly. His voice lowered. “Unlike lying. Hackers? A fire? I feel like I should have been warned about this.”
The tips of my ears warmed. Those green specks in his eyes were there again. Flicking under the fluorescent light and staring right back at me. Our faces were once again too close. Our shoulders touched, and the gentle pressure his palm exerted on my leg, as it remained in place, seemed to scream at me.
“I feel like I should have been warned about this too,” I murmured.
I glanced down at the ring on my finger. The stones around the crown reminded me of the beautiful specks of green.
Matthew’s voice was nothing but a hush. “You don’t like it? You didn’t say.”
His thumb moved from beneath my hand to swipe at the ring. It was merely a brush, but the small gesture sent a truckload of memories cascading down my head. Flashes of men’s faces, first dates, proposals, bouquets of roses, candlelit dinners, rings that were now stored in a box atop my dresser. They all seemed to belong to a past life. Like they were never really mine.
“It doesn’t matter if I like it,” I heard myself say. Because it was this ring, the one that didn’t belong to me. Even when it seemed to occupy all the space in my head after wearing it all of one day. “But it’s beautiful.”
I glanced back at Matthew, a question at the tip of my tongue. There was a question in his eyes, too.
But before we could voice any of that, Bobbi was back, face grim and words even grimmer.
“We have a problem.”
INTERIOR— FILTHY REALI-TEA STUDIO—DAY
SAM: Why are you vibrating with excitement? (laughs)
NICK: (screeches) That’s because I’m in a complete tizzy.
SAM: I can’t wait to hear what you brought us today, then.
NICK: (pause, then rushes out) Everyone has been blowing up our comment section—on all platforms—demanding to know more about a certain girlie and her daddy. SO… without further ado, I am pleased to bring you, Sammy, and our Reali-tiers, our new Filthy series, the one, the— Oh wait. Can I please get a drumroll? Do we have audio effects? Is that a—
(Drumroll sound)
NICK: Oh wow. (chuckles) I didn’t know we had that. Look at us being so fancy. Or the opposite maybe, that was a little too radio for me. All right, anyway, let me get back on track. Drumroll please? (drumroll sound) (pitch increases) I’m honored to present you and our listeners our new series: THE UNDERWOOD AFFAIR.
SAM: Shocker! (claps) And you didn’t tell me any of this? Rude.
NICK: Keeping the secret almost unalived me, believe me. But it was so worth it. Because we’ve got lots of new-sies and I get to see your face while I tell you about them. (calculated pause) And you do, too, by the way. Remember to check our pod recordings in vid format on any platform if you haven’t. And subscribe, for the love of Harry Styles. Click that button.
SAM: Thanks for that Nick. BUT. For context… We’re talking about Small-Town Princess, right? Abandoned by Rich Daddy, on her quest to serve revenge, one heart at a time—tally is high. Which we support, by the way. We support women’s rights and we cheer for women’s wrongs. We don’t support men, for the most part. Specifically Andrew Underwood. And excluding all our short kings.
NICK: That was an excellent summary. And yes to short kings. But we were calling her Small-Town Heiress, not princess. Which brings me to… The new-sies. It’s taken us a lot of work, BUT: one of our little birdies has confirmed that—brace yourself—our babygirl is… ENGAGED. AGAIN.
SAM: Shut up. This makes it… the fifth.
NICK: That we know of. (chuckles) And apparently, in a shocking turn of events, Rich Daddy is paying for the wedding? We don’t have all the deets, but our source said there seems to be a rekindlement of the relationship and both are (lowers voice) blessed to plan and celebrate such a special event together.
SAM: Sounds like PR BS to me (clicks tongue). And rekindlement of what? Was there a relationship?
NICK: I know, right? That’s what I thought too.
SAM: Huh. I wonder how she feels about this. I wonder if he’ll just throw money at it from his mansion or actually get involved. Have we—
NICK: Found her socials and messaged her? Yes. No response. But we’re persistent. And you know what was the strangest thing?
SAM: That it wasn’t set to private? (incredulous chortle)
NICK: Besides that. I mean, someone should have advised her a little better, I guess. But the strangest thing was that there was no trace of her new man. Just farm animals, pottery, shots of sunsets, and a really cool picture of her doing yoga. Girlie has the moves, FYI. What I suspect she doesn’t have is… a lot of interest for this new man if she hasn’t posted him at all.
SAM: Are you thinking the same thing I am?
NICK: You know I like conventionally ugly men. They put in the work. I’d show them off. And the bigger the nose, the better the man, by the way.
SAM: (hums) You aren’t wrong. But I was thinking… why would she have him up anyway? It must be so annoying to delete old posts that include the fiancé of the year. Messes with the aesthetic. Oh, speaking of that: Do we have names? Of the fiancé and the exes? Besides the one we talked to. Derek? Dawson? And— Oh my God, could we bring them to the pod? That would be—
NICK: Wouldn’t that be ah-mazing, sweet Sammy? (secretive chuckle) For now, I’ll just say that you and our listeners will have to wait until the first episode in The Underwood Affair to find out. This was just a teaser. And as always, let us know in the comments what you think—not that you need any encouragement to speak up, you Filthy creatures.
For the fifth time in my life, there was a man on his knee in front of me.
It was like the sickest kind of déjà vu. Because he wasn’t proposing. He never had. But we were engaged. Officially. To the town of Green Oak, but also to the world now. The internet. The gossip-sphere. Something I never thought I’d be part of. Not even when I was with Ricky or Duncan, and they both led lifestyles that related to the public eye.
Apparently it had taken a little more than professional soccer or politics to launch this small-town heiress, not princess into the gossip-sphere. It had taken a different kind of man. My father.
“AND CUT!”
The two words echoed through the Vasquezes’ property, startling me and the man at my feet. Bobbi stomped in our direction, moving gravel as she went.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” she asked when she reached us.
Matthew released my hand and went up on his feet. “Do you need to hold that? You’re standing right here.”
Bobbi put down the bullhorn she’d been using to order everyone around. “Happy?”
“Elated,” Matthew deadpanned. “Thank you.”
Bobbi rolled her eyes. “So? What exactly are you doing? Discussing the weather? Talking about the economy? The real estate market? All of the above? Because that would explain why all the pictures are giving off funeral, instead of happily engaged, yay.”
“Maybe—” Matthew started.
But Bobbi tsked. “Nuh-uh. We’re not postponing, and if we want to catch the sunset—and we do—you need to start acting more lovey-dovey and less the milk in my Pumpkin Spice Latte went sour.” She seemed to think of something. “Is that what’s happening? Do you need caffeine?” The bullhorn rose in the air. “ROBERTO. ROBERTO VASQUEZ?” She turned around in her heels. “THE ANGRY— OH, THERE YOU ARE. COFFEE. AND A MATCHA LATTE . PRONTO. THANK YOU.”
If looks could kill, Bobbi would already be six feet under Robbie Vasquez’s land.
She faced us. “WHERE WERE WE?”
Matthew snatched the bullhorn out of the woman’s hands and crossed his arms.
“Hey,” she complained. “That’s mine.”
“I’m doing you a favor,” he told her. “Believe me.”
“God, why is everyone in this town so touchy?” Bobbi huffed. “All right. Let’s regroup while Roberto gets to work on those drinks. The kneeling is not working, so… You, Josephine. You are going to stand there.” A perfectly manicured finger pointed at a fence. “And you, Matthew, are going to… Hm. Let me think.”
Bobbi pulled her phone out of the chest pocket of her tweed vest, as if that’s what thinking equated to, and started tapping away.
Matthew shifted by my side, his head and voice lowering. “Can’t wait to see the matcha latte Robbie brings her.”
His voice was amused, and that made me purse my lips in question. “Why?”
“If I were him, I’d definitely get creative with the ingredients.”
I snorted. “I don’t think he was that irked. He’s also a dad of two. A stand-up family man. A widower. He wouldn’t go around pranking anyone with drinks.”
“She told him how she loved that farmers would just wear anything,” Matthew countered, brows up. “And then proceeded to order him around his farm. With a bullhorn. That drink is arriving contaminated, sweetheart. ”
Sweetheart. I no longer knew how I felt about the way he let that “sweetheart” out so often. I wondered if he called everyone that. Usually people who used it like Matthew had did. “I think you need to call me something else,” I told him in a low voice. “Something other than ‘sweetheart.’ And should I be concerned about you going around town corrupting beverages? You do seem an expert on the topic.”
Matthew’s lips twitched, and for some reason, a mental image of a younger version of him, blond hair and mischievous smile, popped into my mind. I bet he was so much trouble. I bet he’d broken many hearts with those sweet brown eyes that made the hard angles in his face look soft. I wondered why he didn’t wear his glasses more often, too. His head went even lower, his chin almost reaching my shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was nothing but a rumble. “I hope to corrupt far more than beverages, sweetcheeks.”
“Sweetcheeks?” I whispered, my focus flicking between the sudden closeness of his face and his words. “Is that meant to… compliment my butt or my face?”
The chuckle that left him fell against my cheek. “I’m—”
“YAWN.”
We turned to look at Bobbi.
Her brows were bunched up in disbelief. “I was letting that go on in the hopes that the flirting would turn into dirty talk, so you’d get a little worked up and make this photoshoot a little less painful. But I’m bored out of my mind.”
Flirting. Flirting?
“We weren’t flirting,” I huffed out. A scoff left Matthew, and I decided to take that as a sign of agreement. Bobbi’s lips, however, tipped down in question. “I know what flirting looks like. Or how to flirt. I’m excellent at it. And that wasn’t it. Plus, if we were flirting, we wouldn’t do it with you right there.”
“I would,” Matthew said. I turned toward him, slowly, arching my brows. “I would.” He shrugged. “Even if my game seems to be a little off.”
I also decided to ignore how that sent a tiny flutter down my belly and returned my attention to Bobbi, whose lips were pursed in thought. She tapped her chin with a fingernail. “Are you open to something a little less country, alpine, outdoorsy, et cetera, and a little more boudoir?”
“No,” I croaked. “Why?”
“One, because you ignored my request, left your socials public, and now there’s nothing to do about that except act normal,” she answered, and my cheeks flushed. “The fact that Blondie doesn’t have any is a blessing in disguise.” Her gaze sharpened on Matthew. “Unless you tell me there’s a burner account with boy shit. And if that’s going to come up, it better come up now.”
“What is ‘boy shit,’ exactly?” he asked nonchalantly.
Bobbi’s jaw clenched in a way that had me intervening before she could speak. “How is a boudoir picture going to fix that? Not that I’m not open to that kind of thing. But maybe for something else.” I felt Matthew’s gaze on my profile. “Not for this.” Not with Matthew. Not if it’s all insincere. Not if—
“Breasts have the power to fix almost every issue,” Bobbi countered, bringing my thoughts to a stop. “I don’t make the rules. If I did, we wouldn’t be here, on this farm, breathing in the scent of manure, trying to show two random prattlers with a podcast that you’re actually in love with this man.”
Ouch. Nick and Sam had pointed out that I had no pictures of Matthew anywhere, and while that was a good point, it was also dangerous enough for me not to resist Bobbi’s impromptu photoshoot. “I don’t even post that much. That’s why I haven’t shared pictures of us. And—”
“You’re a private couple. The hackers. Yeah, whatever.” Bobbi shook her head. “At least, thanks to that, the focus seems to be shifting away from Andrew being… rich and selfish. As if those were bad things to be. Either way, that whole Underwood Affair thing needs to be contained. Andrew is concerned.” I stiffened at the mention. “He doesn’t—”
Matthew interjected. “How about you just tell us where you want us? You don’t need to brief us on Andrew’s feelings, yeah?”
Her hands braced on her hips. “The fence. Stand by the fence. And look like you’re in love this time around. It can’t be that hard.” She met my gaze. “You’ve done it a few times, yes?”
I smiled at her, giving her my best accommodating face before walking toward the fence. But I kept thinking about that comment she’d made about Andrew. Matthew was right, I didn’t need to be briefed. The idea of being informed about how concerned my father was made me want to crawl out of my skin. Even when a part of me wondered why he hadn’t gotten in touch. Directly, not through Bobbi. Was it because I’d ignored his latest attempts? That seemed a logical explanation. I’d be irked, too.
Before I could really notice how, I was turning around and Matthew was there, right in front of me. His lips parted, but whatever he was going to say was silenced by Bobbi’s annoyingly amplified voice.
“WILL YOU CONSIDER WEARING A COWBOY HAT?”
“Christ,” I murmured. “Not the bullhorn again.”
Matthew’s head turned slightly over his shoulder. “No.”
I leaned my back on one of the posts, arms crossed a little awkwardly over my chest. “I hate to side with Bobbi, but you might break a few hearts by not wearing one.”
“I’m from Boston,” he countered, stepping closer. The tips of his boots—Chelsea boots, not cowboy ones—brushed the tips of mine. “And how would I break any hearts?”
I thought of how half of Green Oak was still convinced I was engaged to Tennessee’s Maverick. “Just a hunch.”
There was a glint of interest in Matthew’s eyes, as if he wanted to ask more. But once again, Bobbi’s voice was filling the Vasquezes’ property. “LESS CHATTING. MORE TOUCHING.”
“I swear I’m going to—”
Matthew’s hands braced on the wooden rails, his arms suddenly caging me in. “You’re going to do what?”
I cleared my throat, telling my brain to chill. Telling the pounding in my chest to calm the heck down too. These were just arms. And Matthew was just… a man. Blond. Tall. A little more built than I’d expected. But still a man. Only now, it seemed very important to find out whether he worked out regularly. Or what he did as a workout. Strength of some kind. Weights? Pull-ups? The image of him lifting himself up to a bar—I stopped myself. This wasn’t helping. It was also terribly inappropriate. I wanted to keep this as practical as possible.
“SUN IS SETTING,” Bobbi warned. “TICK TOCK.”
That wasn’t helping either.
I blew some air out my nose. “I’m going to have very vivid dreams of me and that bullhorn in one of those rage rooms where you can smash stuff with a bat.”
The corners of Matthew’s lips tipped up. “Mmh, do I get to be there too?”
“In the smash room? Of course.”
Matthew leaned forward, his head coming to the side of mine. I went very, very still. His breath tickled my ear. “Anywhere in those very vivid dreams you’re telling me about.”
Somewhere in my head a bell went off. But both my brain and nervous system were busy, all of me tingling with… awareness. The closeness of him. The waves of body heat his arms and chest gave off, feeling like a blanket over me. The brush of his chin on my cheek. “Matthew ?” I whispered. “Are you flirting with me?”
The chuckle that rumbled out of the man’s throat was brief and deep and extremely inconvenient. I was genuinely trying to figure out if he was. “Yes,” he answered. Simply.
“Why?”
Matthew’s arms closed in on me, his stance widening and his boots moving until his legs enclosed mine. “Sun is setting,” he repeated. “Less chatting. More touching.”
“Oh, okay. Good.” Because that was… good. Yes. “So, ah, where do you want me?”
Another of those short-lived chuckles toppled on my skin. My temple this time. “You tell me, sweetheart.” One of his hands left the fence, landing on my waist. My breath hitched. “I have never done this before.”
“Pictures?” I asked him. My voice came out husky. Off. His palm over the waistband of my dress was all I could focus on. “And I thought we were past the sweetheart.”
I felt him start to say something, but the contact of my hand on his shoulder brought that to a halt. His whole body stiffened for just a moment, so brief that I would have missed it if we weren’t standing this close, or I wasn’t this determined to notice this much. He eased into my touch. “Engagement shoots,” he said. And to my surprise, he grasped my wrist softly, then rearranged my palm so it’d rest higher up. My hand wrapped around the back of his neck, fingertips tingling against his skin. “Sweetpea.”
The word was nothing but a breath, yet it made my belly flop. Flutter. “I… I don’t think that’s working either,” I admitted, the strange quality of my voice even more prominent. “I think…” My left arm rose, my hands meeting behind his neck. “I think you should look at me.” I swallowed, tongue feeling like sandpaper. That blanket of awareness covering my skin thickened. “I think we should look at each other. Gaze into each other’s eyes while we touch. It’s what engagement shoots are about. What people in love do.”
Matthew’s eyes were immediately on me. “What else?”
“Maybe lean a little closer,” I instructed.
He did, and boy it was really hard to focus on anything but him with his face so very close. Matthew’s expression grew serious, the line of his brows determined, and I swore I could feel the tension hanging off that pair of shoulders I seemed so caught on. “Now?”
“Maybe smile a little,” I told him, whatever control I was grasping at in the situation slipping with every inch lost between our chests. “You have a handsome smile.”
Matthew’s hand at my waist flexed, his thumb pushing softly into the purple fabric. “Enough to make you proud? Enough to make you want to show me off?”
I immediately knew what he was referring to. Sam and Nick’s speculation about why I didn’t show my new fiancé anywhere. “They aren’t wrong,” I whispered. And I didn’t know why I said what I did, but the words simply came out. “It’s a little tedious to clean up your life when something ends. Social posts included.”
His hand shifted, sliding across my waist and resting at the small of my back. “Good thing we’re a private couple,” he said, letting more of the weight of his body fall on me. Our hips clashed. Matthew swallowed. “And you can have all this for yourself.”
Breath officially lost to the heaving of my chest, I tried my best to speak. “I thought the purpose of this was the opposite.” My voice came out hoarse. “And your game’s not off. If you’re…” My fingertips stumbled upon those short strands at the nape of his neck, the feel of them making me lose my focus for an instant. “If you’re flirting with me.”
His gaze roamed over my face for an instant. A muscle in his jaw ticked. “I could still do a little better. A little more. If you need me to.” His tongue made a pass of his lower lip. “Do you need me to?”
Yes, I thought. Please. But I said, “Only if you’re comfortable. Are you comfortable with this?” My fingernails grazed his scalp as if to make a point of what I meant.
Matthew’s weight fell a little heavier, a little… nicer. “Do I look uncomfortable to you?”
He didn’t. But I was pretty sure it was a rhetorical question. “I always liked this part,” I heard myself say. “Of a relationship. It’s what I miss the most.”
“That’s a dangerous green light you’re giving me.”
I watched him, waiting for more of… more of anything. But Matthew didn’t say how or move to show me, and with the press of his thighs against mine, and the heat of his palm on my back, and the cocoon of intimacy that had somehow formed around us, I felt the need to speak. “I would post you. Everywhere. If this was real.” The brown in Matthew’s eyes sharpened as his gaze held mine. “I’d be very happy to show you off. Just so you know.”
Matthew continued to watch me, and I continued to study his face in return. He seemed to be thinking of something. Hard. As if he was trying to make up his mind. It intrigued me, what he was debating or what conclusion he would reach.
His lips finally popped open, and I wasn’t going to lie, I held my breath a little. “Josie—”
“AND THAT’S A WRAP!” Bobbi hollered through the bullhorn. Again. “HALLELLUJAH. FINALLY SOMETHING WE CAN USE. GOOD WORK. YOU’RE GIVING HORNY. AMERICA IS GOING TO LOVE THAT.”
That breath I’d been holding left me, and I suddenly felt… dazed. Matthew must have, too, because it took him a beat to step back.
“Hallelujah,” he repeated.
I frowned at that, a little lost as to what the stiffness with which he’d said that came from. Matthew wasn’t Bobbi’s biggest fan, which would explain it. But a part of me wanted to ask. And I would have if I hadn’t seen the woman turning around and walking away. With her phone. That contained the pictures we hadn’t even seen.
“Bobbi!” I called, walking around Matthew. “Wait up!”
I didn’t like leaving Matthew behind like that, but there was something a little more pressing than dissecting why my fiancé was still frowning down at me, lost in thought.
Why was America going to love us?
And how horny exactly did we look?