Chapter 17
Olivia
A heavy weight presses me into soft sheets. For a second, there’s confusion, that old panic from childhood nightmares—am I pinned? Is something wrong?—but mostly I’m just groggy and overly warm.
Then I feel it: the heavy, muscular one draped over my waist, the heat of a cheek pressed to my shoulder, the slow, steady cadence of another person’s breath against my bare skin. Alex. Naked, absolutely out, dead to the world, and clinging like a child to a stuffed animal.
My brain tries to catalogue the details, arrange them on a shelf. The way his eyelashes flicker—longer than they look when he’s awake and giving me hell. The faint bruise on his jaw (my doing, I’m fairly certain).
I want to extricate myself, but there’s something comforting about being the object of Alexander Hawthorne’s unconscious affection.
I’m not sure what that says about me. Probably nothing good.
I close my eyes, content to let his warmth seep into the places I didn’t realize were so cold. Maybe I’ll get up in a minute. Or ten.
I wake up an hour later to Alex propped up on his elbow, sleepy and grinning, tracing my lower back with slow, lazy circles.
“Morning, fiancée,” he says, voice raspy and soft. His lips press to my shoulder blade, then linger.
“Hi,” I reply, shifting to escape the cocoon of sheet and muscle, but he tightens his grip, locking me in place.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Bathroom. Some of us don’t get to wake up looking like a runway model.” I try to be indignant, but yawn halfway through, undermining my case.
Alex laughs, full-bodied and unrestrained. “You always look like a dream, Olivia. Even with bedhead.”
My cheeks flush, and I roll my eyes so hard I see stars. Still, I kind of like that he says things like this, even if I’m ninety-five percent sure he’s hamming it up for effect. With a little bit of effort, I squirm out of his arms, pat the floor for my ruined underwear and the little black dress.
In the bathroom mirror, I barely recognize myself: lipstick smeared across my cheek, hair tangled, a fresh purple hickey on my collarbone.
I splash cold water on my face and try to undo the damage, but the hickey’s permanent, and so is my mortification.
I yank on the crumpled dress and trudge back to the kitchen, where Alex stands fully dressed in a crisp blue suit and eating a protein bar, scrolling through his phone like a man on a mission.
He looks up, sees me, and his whole face softens.
“Would you like some coffee?” He’s holding a cup of coffee made just for me, black and perfect.
“Thank you.” I take it, burning my tongue almost immediately.
His gaze travels the length of me, lingering. “Do you want me to drop you by your apartment?”
“No, I would be late for work. Could you swing by the gallery?”
“You’re going to work dressed like that?”
“Problem?” I tilt my head. My dress is wrinkled from the floor, and I probably smell like sex, but I have some spare clothes at the office. His lips twitch; he’s trying not to smile.
“Not at all. It’s a good look. With you exiting my car looking like that, we won’t need to do a whole lot more to convince anyone we’re madly in love.”
“That was the idea, wasn’t it?”
There’s a pause, the hush between sips of coffee and the mutual acknowledgement of last night’s consequences.
“We should set up the announcement soon. Paparazzi, confirmations, the full parade.” Alex leans forward, elbows on the counter. “Are you ready for that and the scrutiny that will come with it? Once we go through with this, there’s no turning back.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. But Tiffany’s happiness is worth it. And we’ll need paparazzi. Remember my friend Cassandra from the party? She has connections in the press through her event planning business. I’m sure she’d be thrilled to help orchestrate our little show.”
We go over logistics as we drive. We decide to wait a week before announcing our engagement during the Hawthorne business party, so we have one week for all the necessary groundwork—lunches with friends, public sightings, and a few artfully staged photo ops.
The gallery is already open when we pull up, and I feel Alexander’s eyes on me as I grab my purse.
“Olivia,” he says.
I turn to him, meeting his gaze. “Yes?”
“One more thing.” He reaches out and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my cheek. “We should practice.”
“Practice what?”
“Looking like we can’t keep our hands off each other.” He leans across the console, one eyebrow raised. “A goodbye kiss? For authenticity’s sake.” His mouth is so close that his breath tickles my cheek.
My pulse quickens. His eyes hold mine, waiting for permission.
“For practice,” I agree, and my body is already betraying me, leaning in, hungry for the little thrill of his touch.
He kisses me—soft and lingering. It’s not the hungry, take-me-now urgency of last night, but something else entirely: a slow warmth that blooms from my lips and sinks straight down to my toes.
When he pulls away, my resolve is thoroughly perforated.
I try to act unaffected, but I know he sees right through me.
“Convincing.” I manage to find my voice. “If only all our rehearsals could take place in private.”
He grins, but it’s not the predatory one from last night. It’s quieter, the smile of a man who finds a secret joy in messing with me. “We’ll have to up the ante in front of an audience.”
I give him one last defiant look, then slip out of the car and into the gallery. “I’ll see you later.”
Cassandra barely lets me get past the front counter before she’s onto me.
“Well, well, well.” She’s perched on the reception desk, a knowing smirk on her face. “Look what the cat dragged in. Or should I say, who was dropped off by Alexander Hawthorne?”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Cass, I—”
“Save it, honey,” she interrupts, hopping off the desk and circling me like a shark. “Same dress, I told you to wear last night, messy hair... I’d say things went very well indeed.”
“It’s not what you think. Well, not entirely.”
Cassandra raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Do tell. But first, let’s get you changed. You look fabulous, but people might start talking.”
I follow Cassandra to the back room, my heels clicking against the polished wooden floor. She grabs a fresh set of clothes from the small closet we keep for emergencies—a crisp white blouse and tailored black slacks—and tosses them to me.
“Go on,” she says, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. “Change. And while you’re at it, spill the details. You can’t just show up here looking like you’ve been fucked through the mattress and expect me not to pry.”
I roll my eyes, slipping into the blouse and buttoning it up quickly. “Alexander agreed to marry me for a year, and I need your help to make our relationship look real.”
As I slip into the slacks, I explain our plan in hushed tones, watching Cassandra’s expression shift from playful to serious. “You need me to help orchestrate a whirlwind romance for the press?”
I nod, biting my lip. “Can you do it?”
“Honey, I thought you’d never ask. We’ll have them eating out of our hands by the time the engagement party comes around. Operation Fake Fiancés is officially a go.”
I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. The plan might be bold, but with Cassandra on our side, we can pull it off.
We huddle over my desk, Cassandra’s fingers flying across her tablet as she outlines our strategy.
“Okay, so we need to create a narrative,” she says.
“A slow burn that’s suddenly caught fire.
I’m thinking... casual sightings at first, then more intimate moments.
We’ll leak photos all at once just before the event.
Then slowly drip-feed new ones to the media, making it look like you’ve been spending time together secretly, and now it’s all coming to light.
We’ll also need some juicy quotes from friends and family, painting you as the perfect match. ”
I try to keep up with her rapid-fire planning. “That sounds manageable. But how do we make it believable?”
“Details, darling. It’s all in the details.
The way he looks at you, the way you touch him—it has to be natural, like you’ve been doing it for years.
People notice those little things.” She looks at my discarded dress and grins, clearly enjoying herself far too much.
“But it looks like that won’t be a trouble to you. ”
“I cannot believe this is my life,” I say, shaking my head.
“But hey, at least you’re fake-marrying a total hottie, right?”
I laugh, but it catches in my throat, because my feelings for Alexander are anything but fake. The memory of his arms around me this morning, the tenderness in his eyes... It’s all too real.
“Cass,” I say softly. “What if I’m in over my head here?”
Cassandra tilts her head, studying me. “You really care about him, don’t you?”
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.
“Oh, honey.” She sighs. “Be careful, okay? Remember why you’re doing this.”
My little sister. I’m doing this for Tiffany.
“How will I possibly explain to Tiffany that I am engaged to a man she has never even heard of?” I begin to spiral.
“Can’t you just tell her the truth?” Cassandra offers tentatively. “Once she knows about the engagement, it’ll be too late for her to change anything.”
But telling Tiffany the truth would devastate her. She still believes our uncle is just an eccentric old man and not evil personified.
“She would never let me go through with this charade if she knew what was going on.”
“Then she’ll have to believe that you’ve lost your mind and agreed to marry Alex because you’re madly in love with him.”
I sigh, knowing that lying to Tiffany will eat at me every day, but it’s necessary.
“I’ll tell her,” I say finally. “But only after the wedding.”
“You’re playing with fire, Olivia,” Cassandra warns me.
I may be playing with fire, but I have no other choice.