13. Skylar
SKYLAR
Six days. I’ve only been living with Declan for six days, and I already feel like I’m losing my mind. How am I supposed to do this for six weeks?
He’s driving me insane. The first day I woke up with that godforsaken ring on my finger, I almost threw all his clothes out on the lawn, but then I came downstairs to the most amazing smelling French toast cooking on a griddle, bacon crisping in the oven.
Not to mention the fruit salad. The man made an entire fruit salad with fresh berries and a side of whipped cream.
It was then I decided to take a passive-aggressive approach instead.
I ate his delicious breakfast, every manipulative morsel.
Then I placed the ring on the seat of his motorcycle.
The next morning it was back on my finger.
Belgian waffles with a chocolate drizzle that tasted suspiciously homemade waited for me on the kitchen island.
Since when the hell does Declan Astor know how to cook?
I put the ring in his sink, dangerously close to the drain, before he drove me to work.
The ride wasn’t bad. There were no more potential wild animal sightings, and I didn’t freak out.
No soothing words, no calming back rubs. Thank the universe for small miracles.
That’s how it’s gone every day this week.
I wake up to the smell of breakfast spread that would rival any fancy restaurant, hide the ring that reappears on my finger every night, and Declan drives me to work.
At the end of the day, he’s waiting outside in his Aston Martin, because of course that’s what he drives when he’s not borrowing Luke’s truck or driving that death trap of a motorcycle.
We go home and he asks what I want for dinner to which I reply “whatever,” and then he orders takeout.
I guess maybe his culinary skills only extend to brunch fare.
He’s got me beat. I mostly live on frozen meals and pasta. Or I did, when I lived alone.
On Wednesday, he drives me to physical therapy after work, despite my protests that I can find a ride myself, and waits in the car for the entire thirty-minute appointment.
We haven’t discussed the whereabouts of my car or our game of musical rings.
We haven’t really talked about anything; not my panic attack the other day or the real reason I need my trust fund.
He hasn’t even asked me about his cut for participating in this whole ruse.
Although I guess it’s clear from the mansion he lives in that he doesn’t need the money.
So what’s his endgame? Why did he insist on me living at his house?
I don’t even know where he goes during the day.
According to Ash, he works for his dad, but he never looks like he’s coming from or going to a corporate job.
For all I know, he could fight in an underground boxing ring all day.
The fading purple bruise under his eye the night we got married flashes in my mind, but I mentally bat it away.
Either way, it’s now Friday, and I need a break, which is why I text him as I’m finishing the last article approvals for Monday.
No need to get me tonight. I’m going out after work. Don’t wait up.
He replies almost instantly.
Declan
With who?
Not your business.
Declan
How will you get home?
I’ll figure it out.
That’s it. Radio silence. As I slip my phone into my back pocket, it dawns on me that I could see if Allie or Emory wants to grab a drink, but I still haven’t talked to them about this whole mess.
They’ve reached out, but I’ve been vague.
I’m sure Allie knows by now. I didn’t tell Ash it was a secret, and if he knows, Allie and possibly Emory know.
Honestly, I don’t feel like answering the questions.
It’s bad enough I had to lie to my best friend when I told him Declan and I decided to “give it a go.” As if things couldn’t get any worse, now I’m fake dating my real husband.
Ash took one look at my bare ring finger, quirked an eyebrow, and left it at that.
He knows—of course he knows something is up—but I can’t even face myself in the mirror, let alone my friends.
If they knew the real reason I’m choosing to stay married, they would try to help, and I can’t let that happen.
I have the ability to save a life. I couldn’t save my dad, but maybe I can save Dave if I hold on just a little longer.
Maybe Declan’s right and I should wear the ring.
It would help keep up the facade, but it wouldn’t stop the inevitable line of questioning.
I tuck the thought away to deal with later as I take my phone out again to order a rideshare.
If I go somewhere in town, I’m more likely to run into someone I know, so I go somewhere I’m less likely to be noticed.
The Tap Room in Rocky Falls isn’t far. It’s only on the other side of Emberfield, but it’s far enough that I most likely won’t run into anyone I know, especially since all my friends are coupled up now.
They’re probably all out to dinner in town, cuddled in one booth, making heart eyes at one another.
The Tap Room isn’t exactly dingy, but it’s nothing like the quaint little restaurants in Emberfield or the high-end cocktail lounges in Baybridge.
I slide up to the bar, feeling around for one of those little hooks underneath to hang my bag.
When I find none, I place it on my lap, letting out a sigh that makes a strand of hair that fell into my face jump.
I take off my jacket and instantly regret it.
The silk top I’m wearing suddenly feeling like too much, especially paired with these tight jeans.
Considering my usual wardrobe consists of T-shirts and overalls, I got a few odd looks at work, but I didn’t care. Here though? I feel exposed.
“Work or love life?” a voice drawls above me.
A tattooed hand appears in front of me holding a cocktail shaker. I look up and instantly recognize the man attached to the hand.
“Julian?”
His eyebrows furrow as he tries to place me, and when he comes up empty, heat creeps up my neck.
Of course he doesn’t remember me. He only really saw me that one time when Allie whisked me off to the walk-in fridge during her wedding reception.
God, I wish I could go back to the moment before everything went to shit, but then I wouldn’t be in a position to help Dave.
Julian’s still looking at me like he’s trying to solve a complex math equation. In his defense, I looked very different that night thanks to Emory’s bridesmaid makeover.
“Do I know you?” he finally asks, grabbing a bottle of clear liquor and expertly flipping it around to pour into the shaker he’s holding.
“No, not really. I’m a friend of Allie’s. I saw you at her wedding reception a few weeks ago, but we didn’t officially meet.”
His confusion melts into understanding, a brief flash of uneasiness flickering across his face before his lips turn up into a grin.
“Nah. I don’t buy it. I would have remembered meeting someone as beautiful as you.”
The blush from earlier returns, and I briefly wonder what would have happened if I had taken Allie up on her offer to set me up with him. Not that it matters now.
“Well, any friend of Chef’s is a friend of mine.” He squeezes a lime into the shaker before scooping ice into it. “Just don’t tell her you saw me. I’d much rather spend all my time at the restaurant, but bartending tips are hard to beat on a Friday night. Gotta pay those bills, you know?”
I nod. God, do I know about doing things you'd rather not for money. I guess it sounds pretty bad when I say it like that.
“What’s your poison?” he asks as he pops a metal cup over the concoction and starts shaking.
“Whiskey neat.”
“You have a preference for whiskey?” He pours the drink in a martini glass, adding a lemon peel on the top as garnish.
“Any kind, as long as it has booze in it.”
“We have top shelf and —”
“Honestly, I don’t care. I just need a drink.” My cheeks redden as he picks up the drink he just finished making. “I’m so sorry. That was rude.
He waves me off. “No apology necessary. I got you. Let me deliver this drink, and then I’ll make yours.”
Taking his absence as a momentary reprieve to gather myself, I rub my hands over my face.
“You didn’t answer my question.” My hands leave my face, dropping back down to where my purse is still perched on my lap. Julian’s back and pouring brown liquid into a glass.
“Question?”
He slides the glass over to me. “Work or love life?”
I look down into my glass and back up at him before throwing it back. The warm, spicy liquid slides easily down my throat, and I welcome the burn. I don’t usually drink whiskey. I’m not a big drinker in general, but tonight demands this.
Julian nods and wordlessly pours another shot into my glass.
I sip this one as he attends to another person further down the bar.
“Another one, please,” I call out jingling the glass.
He pours it. “That bad?”
“Imagine the worst day of your life, and then imagine having to live with it in the same house so that every time you walk into the kitchen or sit down to watch TV, you’re reminded of it.”
“Sounds like hell,” he says.
Two more shots later and I’m starting to feel a little better…and bolder.
“I’m Skylar, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Skylar.” He extends his hand, and I shake it, noting the intricate lines of black ink running up to his elbow. They’re pretty, but it’s all wrong. There’s no number thirteen, no punk-rock logos.
“You don’t have to lie,” I slur, the alcohol making the room tilt a little.
“I’m a bartender. It’s in my job description. But I wasn’t lying.”
He flashes his perfectly white teeth as he throws a bar mop over his shoulder. A faint flush works its way up my cheek, but before I can respond, he leans down, his elbows on the bar, mouth close to my ear, “Hey, Skylar?”
“Y-yeah?”