Chapter 13 #2
He lets her explain every single crayon choice.
He pretends to be devastated when she shows him a particularly unflattering sketch she did of him, playing into her giggles over how purposely bad it is.
He laughs when she climbs all over him like he’s jungle gym equipment, lying back on the floor as she straddles his chest, pretending she wrestled him down.
At one point she steals his phone and takes three blurry photos of her own forehead, and he reacts like she’s just created fine art.
Most of his attention stays on Penelope while I try to actually relax for a bit and sketch out designs in crayon. But now and then, his gaze catches mine across the room, and every time it does, it feels loaded in a completely different way than the things he actually says.
When pizza arrives, we eat in the kitchen because Penelope is definitely not clean enough to risk getting grease on the couch.
Her and Grayson sit next to each other on the island while I stand to eat opposite them, leaning over the counter.
She tells us about school again between bites of cheese pizza and attempts to negotiate for extra ranch.
Grayson holds the line with the calm patience of a man who has clearly argued with this tiny person before.
“Nope. One pot’s worth,” he says.
“But, but, but what if I get to a part of the pizza that doesn’t have sauce and I need more?”
I choke on a laugh.
His mouth twitches. “Then you can have some of mine.”
“Yours is gross!”
“Mine is healthier.”
She sighs like this is the greatest injustice a child has ever suffered.
It is, against all odds, a good night.
It’s simple, easy, warm in the places that matter — and maybe that’s why it hurts a little. I can see how this could become normal. I can see how dangerous that would be.
By the time Penelope is bathed, in her pajamas, and tucked into bed, I am exhausted and a little strung out thinking about the office tomorrow and then watching her all over again.
Grayson handles most of her bedtime routine, but I get her a glass of water when she begs and hovers in the doorway, watching Penelope cuddle into her blankets while he reads with her tucked against his side.
When he says goodnight, she makes him kiss her forehead twice because once was insufficient for her, and it makes my chest ache how easily he folds for her.
“Night, Daddy. Night, Carly,” she says sleepily.
“Night, Penny.” I wave, taking a step back from the door.
“Night, princess,” Grayson murmurs, giving her one extra kiss for free before slipping away. He pulls her door mostly closed behind us, the hallway suddenly too quiet, and for a second, neither of us moves — just him standing there, watching me standing there.
It’s almost excruciating.
Grayson exhales and rubs the back of his neck. “We... need to talk about earlier.”
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Okay.”
He gestures toward the living room. “Let’s go downstairs.”
I follow him without another word, unsure about which of the thousand routes this conversation could go. He could fire me for what happened yesterday, could kiss me again, could tell me he fucked up deciding to be my fictitious boyfriend and now I need to fix that mess. The options are endless.
I perch on one end of the sectional while he takes the armchair across from me like we’re conducting business and aren’t just two people alone in his house at almost eight in the evening.
He braces his forearms on his thighs and looks at me directly. “I need more context.”
My stomach twists. “About?”
“The couple from the restaurant earlier.” His jaw shifts once. “Who were they?"
“Oh,” I say, my throat closing in immediately. “That was, uh, my... my ex. We broke up almost three months ago.”
His brows lift. “Three months ago?”
I nod. I can see the gears shifting in his head.
“And he’s engaged.” Not a question.
I run my tongue over my front teeth, unable to form words to properly express my surprise and frustration over that tidbit of information. I nod.
“Christ.”
“Aaron and I were together for, like, three years. Lived together. He…” I swallow. “He cheated. With Sarah. The woman he was with earlier. Based on the ring, I’m guessing it started earlier than he admitted to.”
Something hard flashes through Grayson’s expression. “That makes the boyfriend comment a lot more understandable,” he says. "Assuming that was a lie. But I’m sorry if I stepped in where I wasn’t needed if—”
“No, no,” I laugh once, but there’s no humor in it. “It was a lie. That was me being an idiot. He asked if I was there with someone, and I just — I don’t know. I didn’t want him thinking I was alone and pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic.”
The reply comes so fast it catches me off guard. My eyes lift to his, and what I find is an entirely unreadable face. “Thanks.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
I fold my hands together so he won’t see me fidget. “You didn’t have to step in.”
“Yes, I did.” He leans back slightly in the chair. “I’m not going to let you stand there and get cornered by your ex while he enjoys himself.”
I stare at him.
There are a million separate problems with that sentence, the biggest one being that it makes him sound dangerously like someone I could start relying on.
He seems to realize that, too, because his expression shutters a little.
“But,” he says, “even though I signed myself up to pretend to be your boyfriend for them, it isn’t real.”
A knot forms at the base of my throat. “Right. I know that.”
His voice stays even, careful. “If the wedding comes up again, if those people are around, I’ll handle it. That part is fine. But at home, at work, things stay professional.”
At home. At work. Professional. The words are sensible, but they’re also beginning to feel like tiny paper cuts in the exact same spot, digging a painful hole in my skin.
I force a nod. “Of course.”
“Good.” His hands flex as he sits up straighter. “I’m assuming he’s why you were sleeping on your friend’s couch.”
“He—Yeah,” I admit.
“Then I’ll make sure he wishes he never hurt you.”
There it is again, that mixed signal whiplash.
The kiss by the pool. The icy correction. The protective fake-boyfriend act. The kiss against the side of my head that definitely wasn’t needed. The immediate reminder that none of it is real.
I don’t know whether he’s confused, repressed, noble, stupid, or all four.
He glances toward the hallway. “I’ve got a couple things to finish in my office before bed.”
“Okay.”
He gives one short nod and gets up, walking down the hallway and disappearing around a corner in this maze of a house.
I sit there for another few seconds staring at nothing before I get up, go to my room, and close my own door behind me. I kick off my shoes and sit on the edge of the bed, then fall backward onto the duvet with a groan.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask the ceiling, as though it might clarify for me whether I mean him or me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slide it out without much thought, assuming it’s a text from Zoe or Mom or a social media notification that I couldn’t care less about.
But it’s not.
It’s an alert from the apartment app I was scrolling the other day. One bed, one bath, central Boulder, newly remodeled, white goods included, towards the top of my price range—
I open the listing so fast I almost drop my phone on my face.
Hardwood floors. Small but not depressing kitchen. Clean bathroom. In-unit laundry, which feels almost erotic at this point in my life.
I read every line twice before I message immediately, terrified someone wealthier with better credit and a more stable life can get there first.
To my shock, the response comes back fast.
The landlord is local. He’s doing renovations and says it won’t be move-in ready for another twelve weeks, give or take, but he’s willing to work with me on payment timing if I’m serious.
Twelve weeks. My eyes snag on it.
That’s a week after the wedding.
Long enough for this fake-boyfriend situation to either quietly die or explode spectacularly in my face.
Long enough to keep living here while I figure out how to exist beside Grayson Sparkks.
But it’s also an exit. A real one. A backup plan. If things go to shit in this house and he ends up firing me, I need one.
I stare at the message thread for less than ten seconds before typing back that yes, I’m serious. Yes, I want it. Yes, I can make it work.
The reply comes with lease details and a promise that he’ll hold it for me if I sign tonight.
My pulse kicks up.
This feels reckless. But so does staying here with no way out.
I open the documents, read enough to make sure I’m not accidentally agreeing to sell a kidney, then sign.
Done.
I set my phone down on my stomach and stare at the ceiling again.
In twelve weeks, I’ll have somewhere else to go.
Which means if Grayson keeps looking at me like he wants two entirely different things, I won’t be trapped here when one of us finally screws this up.
The thought should make me feel calmer, but instead, I lie there in the huge quiet room with my heart thudding too hard, already wondering what the hell I’ve just agreed to and if I’ve just fucked up a good thing.