Chapter Eighteen
Eighteen
Josie
That’s all Axe’s text says. No clue where we’re going, what we’re doing, or what I’m supposed to wear.
I knew when I took the job that my hours would be weird—that I wouldn’t be sitting in the cool SynthoTech office with a cubicle and a laptop.
But I didn’t think it’d be this random. Just vague texts for vague meet-ups, zero warning.
I’m not okay with this.
I start to type something sassy—WTAF—then hesitate. I look around the new apartment, now officially mine. Mini-lights strung up, my stuff unpacked. Honor even brought over my favorite candle from the store, so it smells like manuka honey in here.
Home, home, home. Like if I say it enough, it’ll stick. I’m finally out of my parents’ sad little guesthouse.
Nope, not gonna risk pissing Axe off. I need this job. Forget insulin; you’d have to pry this apartment from my cold dead hands before I give it up. I will be a good, eager employee.
Umm, I have questions, I write back.
Work had to start sometime, Ginger Snap
Ginger Snap?
Well, you are a snappy almost ginger. Suits you
I ignore this.
I’m happy to start work! There. That sounded sufficiently enthusiastic and professional. Just would love to have more details
Wear a dress. And then a beat later: You do own a dress not made out of ace bandages, right?
So no mummy cosplay?
Not tonight. Save that for your days off
Right. This is work. I peek into my closet—a black hole of jeans, T-shirts, and hoodies. I could call Honor—she’ll have something I can borrow, right? But then I spot it, shoved in a plastic bag at the very back.
I hid it there on purpose so I wouldn’t have to face how epically my plans blew up.
In exactly three weeks, I was supposed to be getting married. Funny how time changes things—now my whole relationship with Bryan feels like some wildly fucked-up fever dream.
If and when I can ever afford therapy, the first questions I’ll unpack are: Why didn’t I realize sooner I could leave home on my own? Why did I think I needed a man to save me? How did I miss the truth staring me right in the face?
The same burst of determination that’s kept me going these past few days kicks in.
The same energy that made me sign a new lease and ignore my mom’s barrage of calls and texts today—six voicemails, fifteen messages—begging for my new social media passwords.
I yank the plastic bag off with one quick pull.
The thing is, I could just…wear the dress. If I wanted to. Nobody is stopping me.
It’s definitely the most expensive thing I’ve ever bought in my life. I always planned to resell it on Poshmark after wearing it just once, as long as Bryan didn’t spill anything on it. Now, looking at it, it feels like the most unhinged splurge.
And yet…it’s gorgeous.
I never wanted a big, traditional wedding gown.
I skipped right past Here Comes the Bride in downtown Shelton, with all their tulle and lace and crinoline, and found a tiny boutique in Pittsburgh that felt way more like me.
No pushy salesladies with cheap champagne and bad advice—just a thirtysomething designer with a sharp eye and a vibe that reminded me of Honor.
The dress itself is simple yet stunning. A lemon-yellow silk slip with spaghetti straps. When my mom first saw it, she begged me to return it for something that looked less like lingerie Kate Moss would have worn in 1995 and more like a wedding dress.
But it was already too late. I’d fallen in love.
In the same box where I keep my treasured tarot deck, I also keep my most cherished black-and-white photo of Nonna.
In the picture, she’s around nineteen, effortlessly glamorous, seated in a plastic backyard lawn chair with a martini glass, either toasting or begging for a refill.
She looks so painfully young, so wonderfully alive.
Her red curls flow down her back, just like mine.
And her dress is practically identical to the one I found in that store—a timeless slip of silk, one strap casually falling off her shoulder.
A dress telegraphing a moment and a feeling: freedom. That I wanted it for my wedding should have told me something. Subconsciously, I must have known I was trading one prison for another, when all I wanted was to fly.
I pull the dress out now, and grin.
Are you going to tell me what we’re doing? I text Axe.
Three guesses.
Haggis eating contest? Kilt twirls on TikTok? Master the bagpipes in ten minutes?
Nah, dentist appointment. I’ll bet you’ll be a right bonny lass in a bib.
Automatically, I cover my mouth with my hand.
I’m 75 percent sure he’s joking, but wait—could there actually be something wrong with my teeth?
I thought I’d done all the SynthoTech workups already—the scans, the physical exams, all that stuff.
I was super stressed about it, too. I mean, how does someone with my history of medical drama pass a basic physical?
I kept telling myself I was in remission, my allergies wouldn’t be a deal-breaker, and my diabetes was under control. But even after I passed, I kept waiting for a call from the doctor telling me that there had been some mistake.
Okay, sure, I text, trying to keep it light. I’ll go floss again!
Ha just windin’ you up. No dentist date. You’ve got lovely gnashers.
Not funny
Hey, could have said proctologist…
!!!!
Sorry. I’ve never been much of a gentleman
No kidding. Fucking Axe. I can just hear him laughing that low, teasing chuckle, so delighted about his childish joke.
I stop texting and toss my phone on the bed.
Axe got one thing right—he’s no gentleman, despite the fact that he did rescue me from Freddy Krueger and has a generous health insurance policy.
Men who look like Vikings and talk like they spent a childhood shearing sheep in the Scottish Highlands and say whatever comes to their minds, no matter how insulting—they aren’t gentlemen.
Also, he is too big, too strong, too likely to pin a woman against the wall as he grinds into her to be considered a gentleman.
Not that I’ve ever imagined him pinning me against a wall.
Nope. Never. Not even once.
When my phone buzzes again, Axe still hasn’t told me where we’re going.
Just a message: black car, five minutes.
I grab a bag and a wrap, and slip on a pair of cute, comfy sneakers.
Then I take them off again. This dress deserves heels.
I only own one pair, but they are sky-high and a gorgeous snakeskin.
Hopefully wherever we’re going doesn’t require any actual walking.
The car arrives promptly. I climb into the cavernous leather back seat—no Axe, just a thin-lipped driver.
In no time we’re zipping down the highway outside Shelton to the more rural Maplehill, where we now wind along country lanes.
I’ve never been here—not with my dust and pollen allergies—and my stomach tightens as I grip the seat.
I’m going to fuck up this first date in five minutes when I start sneezing like a trombone.
There won’t be enough tissues for what I will unleash.
My anxiety feels like a runaway train. How did I ever think I could pull off being the ideal girlfriend when I can barely leave the house without a careful plan?
By the time the car stops in front of this ancient covered bridge, I’m practically vibrating with nerves—probably because the sign reads Historically Protected Bridge. No Cars Allowed. The driver opens my door, and right on cue, a man in a leather jacket pulls up on a motorcycle.
It’s so perfectly timed, there’s got to be some GPS sorcery involved.
Even before he yanks off his helmet, I know it’s Axe.
Broad shoulders, leather gloves, thick thighs.
How many leather jackets does this guy own?
This one’s different from the other day—softer, dressier, more “man about town” than Hells Angel.
Seriously, someone this annoying shouldn’t be allowed to look so hot on a motorcycle.
“I got it from here,” Axe says to the driver. To me, he says, “A hop across the bridge to supper, if you don’t mind jumping on the back.”
“Umm…” My heart is skittering. The bike is massive and loud, and I’ve had enough near-death experiences for one lifetime.
Then again, Axe doesn’t seem like the type to crash.
Plus, I wouldn’t mind feeling that smooth leather against my skin.
In this dress and Axe’s getup, we’d look like a perfume ad.
“Ever ridden on the back of a bike before?” he asks.
“Yes, a couple of times,” I lie, trying to subtly dry my sweaty hands on my dress before climbing on.
Axe hands me a helmet and helps me buckle it under my chin.
My hair—already wild on a good day—is going to be a disaster after this.
When his fingers brush my neck, I feel a jolt of electricity. Must be static.
Axe suddenly frowns. “You’re shivering. Didn’t think about it being this cold,” he says, shrugging off his leather jacket and draping it over my shoulders.
He’s wearing an untucked fitted white button-down shirt and gray jeans, both of which are straining against his muscles.
He runs a hugely successful company—when does he have time to go to the gym this much? “Here, take this.”
“Thanks,” I say. The jacket is warm from his body, and it smells like him—clean, spicy, with a hint of something dangerous and addictive. My cheeks flame up instantly from how stupidly sexy this whole thing is.
“All right, now hop on, Ginger Snap,” he says. “Nice shoes. Very practical.” He winks, and I can’t help but laugh.
“They do the trick.” I try to look enigmatic, and use my high heel to jump onto the bike.
I surprise myself with my coordination and swing my leg around, landing behind Axe.
According to the employment paperwork I signed, my role here is to be the sort of universal date all men would want to have.
I have no idea what that actually means in practice.
The SynthoTech contract was very clear: be natural, be organic.
Trying too hard to be perfect is just going to backfire.
I’m better off not trying at all and just being myself.
I will not think about the fact that there’s an entire section on good-night kisses on page eight—paragraph four, section B, to be exact—or how there’s a very good chance I’ll feel Axe’s lips on mine by the end of this evening.
“Hope this date will feel better than a root canal,” I tell him.
He laughs, popping on his helmet as I hitch up my dress—thank God I’m not wearing tulle—and clamp my legs around Axe’s. The engine revs to life, then softens once we’re on the bridge, the roar replaced by the tires clattering over the wide wooden planks.
My arms wrap around his waist as I take in the arched roof and filtered, dimming sunlight.
I breathe the smell of old, weathered wood and earth.
It’s all so beautiful. I cling tighter, feeling the heat of Axe’s back through his thin shirt as we emerge from the bridge onto an extremely steep incline.
The shift in momentum makes me press even closer, gripping him to keep from slipping off.
It’s terrifying, but Axe is steady, effortless, and my fear morphs into something else: exhilaration.
The trees above are thick and green, the setting sun looks like an orange lollipop melting into the horizon.
Every turn Axe takes is smooth, like he’s done this a million times, and each twist sends my stomach flipping as we climb higher, the valley below shrinking to doll size.
And then it hits me—an insane sense of freedom unlike anything I’ve ever felt.
I want to whoop, cheer, let out this weird, buzzing energy building inside me.
At the top of the hill, Axe slows down. My heart is pounding, half from the ride and half from the incredible view. But there are no restaurants for miles. Maybe I shouldn’t have assumed we were eating dinner.
That’s when I spot it: a table set for two, strategically placed for the best panoramic view, under a canopy of trees strung with fairy lights.
Holy shit.
Red wine, white tablecloth, napkins folded on fine china plates, and two cushioned wooden chairs.
Beyond romantic. It all feels so surreal, like a scene from a dream.
Or an Instagram ad for a life no one gets to actually live.
With the stunning hues of sunset behind us, it’s like we’re wrapped in a glow of peach and melon.
“Wow,” I whisper, mostly to myself, because it all feels too perfect to be real.
“Ready?” Axe asks as he swings off the bike, takes off his helmet, and then runs his fingers through his mussed-up hair.
Is he trying to be sexy? Because to be honest, it’s one hundred percent working.
He steps closer to me, and I have no idea what he’s doing. Is he going to kiss me? Surely not yet.
I’m way too confused by the whole vibe—the idyllic backdrop, the fairy lights, all of it—probably because I’m now in the business of other people’s fantasies. Axe reaches out and gently unclips the strap under my chin. Another jolt of electricity, straight to my core, and my heart skips a beat.
Suddenly, I realize I’m so not ready for any of this. I, Josie Greene, am officially in over my head.