Chapter 12
LIAM
Peyton is quiet as the driver opens her door. She climbs out, craning her neck to take in the full scope of the house—the modern lines, the walls of glass, the way the structure seems to hover above the hillside.
I brace for the usual reaction. The one I get from investors, dates, or the occasional distant relative angling for a loan. They look at the house and see dollar signs, success, a man who has his shit together.
Peyton stares at it differently. She tilts her head, and her expression isn’t impressed or calculating. It’s closer to… concerned.
I dismiss the driver and lead her inside.
I thought I had the situation handled, that I could flip a switch, treat this like a merger acquisition, and breeze through the next three years. But seeing Peyton standing in the middle of my living room, dwarfed by the soaring space, shows me how that plan is full of leaks.
She looks small against the expanse of glass, a splash of chaos in a house designed for monochrome minimalism.
It’s strange. It’s wrong. And yet, a vibration hums in my chest, like a plucked guitar string, that suggests she fits right in to the negative space I’ve been ignoring for years. As if the house has been waiting for someone to fill it, and now she’s here, the emptiness becomes difficult to ignore.
I shove the thought down. This is a business arrangement, a mutually beneficial deal. Nothing more.
Peyton wanders into the kitchen. She trails a finger along the island, an expanse of white marble big enough to land a helicopter on, and stops in front of the six-burner Wolf range. I make breakfast on it and I’ve used it to boil water twice, maybe three times.
She turns to me, voice sad. “Do you live here by yourself?”
I lean against the doorframe, shoving my hands into the pockets of these atrocious white slacks. “Yep, just me.”
Brown eyes search my face for something I’m not sure I want her to find. “It must be lonely.”
The observation lands like a jab to the ribs, precise and unblocked. I stiffen. I’m used to people walking in here and commenting on the square footage, the panoramic views, the ridiculous cost of the imported Italian marble. No one ever talks about the echoes.
“Why buy a place this big for one person?” She leans her hip against the counter.
“I didn’t buy it.” I walk over to her side of the island. “I built it.”
Her eyebrows rise.
“The architect drew up plans that allowed for the possibility of a future family.” I gesture at the open space. “Room to grow. That sort of thing.”
Peyton’s lips twitch. “Are you planning to have seven children? Like the guy in The Sound of Music?”
“Gosh, no.” I huff a laugh.
“Let me guess.” She cocks her head, studying me with a terrifying amount of insight for someone I met yesterday. “Daddy’s idea?”
“And Mom’s.” I rest my hands on the back of a barstool. “It was a joint effort. A coordinated pincer movement. He craves the legacy, and she wants the holiday card photo op.”
Peyton nods, her gaze sweeping over the pristine kitchen with its double wall ovens and the warming drawer that I only use to store the takeout menu for A Slice of Heaven, the pizzeria by the lake.
“That explains the trad-wife wet-dream setup.” She flicks a hand at the gleaming appliances. “Am I expected to dress like we’re in the fifties and wear rollers to bed after baking casseroles all day?”
I move closer and give in to the impulse I’ve been fighting since we got in the car. I reach for the dark spiral that’s escaped her messy bun.
“Your hair is curly enough,” I say, tugging gently on her curl, stretching it.
“No rollers needed.” I let go and watch, fascinated, as it bounces back.
Peyton stays very still. “You don’t have to play a part or be someone you’re not.
Be yourself. Messy hair, sarcastic comments, whatever makes you comfortable.
” I meet her eyes. “The only thing you need to fake is being helplessly in love with me.”
A flush starts at the hollow between her collarbones, a creeping pink tide that rises to her cheeks. She takes a deliberate step backward, retreating from me, and clears her throat.
“Good to know my tattoos won’t be a problem for your conservative family,” she deadpans.
Tattoos?
My gaze drops to the V of her sweater. I scan her neck, the dip of her collarbones, her wrists. I go back to this morning; I didn’t see any tattoos on the glimpses of pale skin I got when she was wearing nothing but that bathrobe.
Is she messing with me? Playing games?
Or are the tattoos hidden somewhere I haven’t seen?
The impulse to strip her naked on the kitchen counter and find out pushes uninvited into my brain.
The doorbell rings, cutting through my problematic thoughts.
Thank fuck.
“Who is it?” Peyton glances toward the foyer, worried.
“Lila.” I’m already moving, grateful for the interruption. “She knows we’re not married. I had to bring her in on the plan, and she demanded to be present at the strategizing session.”
Peyton does a little hop, clapping her hands. “Oh, yay!”
I roll my eyes. “Great. I’m outnumbered.”
The moment I open the door, Lila barges in past me.
“Honey, I’m home!” she yells at no one in particular, shoving two heavy duffel bags into my chest as she makes a beeline for Peyton.
My best friend tackles my fake wife into a bear hug. “I finally have the sister I’ve always wanted,” Lila announces. “It’s so boring to deal with Rocky on his own. He broods all the time. It’s exhausting. I’m thrilled you’re sticking around, even if the pretend marriage plan is cuckoo bananas.”
“Thanks.” Peyton laughs, slightly breathless from the squeeze. “I think.”
Lila spins around, acknowledging my existence at last.
“Study,” she commands. “We need a whiteboard. And snacks. Do you have snacks? Never mind, I brought my favorites.” She pats one of the bags I’m holding.
I shift the duffels in my arms. “Make yourself at home,” I say flatly.
Lila ignores me, already steering Peyton down the hall.
The study is my favorite room in the house. It has the best view of the lake; it’s where I spend most of my time when I’m at home.
Lila walks in, dumps her purse on the desk, and points at me.
“Pants off.”
Peyton chokes on air.
“No.” I clutch the duffel bags like a shield.
“I need to change your bandage.”
“You can check it later. When we don’t have an audience.”
“Are you suddenly shy?” Lila bats her eyelashes at me. “Peyton has seen it all already.”
“I can wait in the other room,” she offers quickly.
Lila waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t be silly. You two have to pretend to be married. You need to get in character. Get comfortable seeing each other naked.”
“It’s not that kind of arrangement,” I say firmly.
“Then at least in various states of undress.” Lila plants her hands on her hips.
“You can’t be blushing and stammering every time one of you changes clothes.
” She points at the armchair. “Now, drop the church pants and sit before your wound gets more infected and you end up in the hospital, which would complicate your fake-marriage timeline.”
I look at Peyton. “You don’t have to stay.”
“Do you need help?” she asks Lila, ignoring me.
Lila’s eyes turn calculating. It’s the face she makes when she’s decided to meddle in my life.
“Yeah,” she says, too cheerfully. “I definitely do. Two sets of hands are better than one.”
I shove the duffel bags back at Lila. She catches them against her chest, unfazed.
“Cut it out,” I hiss, then, in a normal tone, I add, “I’ll be right back.”
I move into the home gym and change into a pair of basketball shorts that will leave Lila free to replace my bandage without compromising my dignity. At least I hope so as I lower myself into the armchair in front of the study’s fireplace.
Lila is waiting with surgical gloves on, the air smelling of hand sanitizer.
“Okay,” my best friend says, peeling back the gauze. “We should work on the story of your meet-cute while I dress this.”
“What the hell is a meet-cute?” I ask.
“You’d know if you ever came to book club.” She glances up at Peyton. “We meet every Wednesday. You have to join.”
“What do you read?” Peyton asks.
“Anything from literary fiction to alien romance.”
And she wonders why I didn’t join.
“Alien romance?” Peyton repeats with a chuckle. “I’ve never tried it, but I’d love to join.”
“Yay,” Lila squeals. “We’re finally going to have a Rockwood. All five founding families. It’ll be amazing.”
I love my hometown, but sometimes they’re so hung up on traditions. Peyton nods, looking a bit overwhelmed by Lila’s Lilaness but also pleased to be included.
Lila turns back to my leg. The wound looks better than last night—less raw, the angry red fading to pink at the edges.
“So.” She grabs a tube of ointment and smirks up at me, the matchmaking glint in her eyes turning feral. “Was it love at first sight?”
The question startles me. I scrape a hand along my jaw.
I really haven’t thought this through. We need a story.
A narrative with details. A plausible explanation for how we met and fell so madly in love that we got married in secret.
Was she already engaged? Were we having an affair?
I have nothing. No timeline. No romantic beats. Not a single convincing lie.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
But it’s too late to back out now. Peyton is sitting in my house. My mother is landing in a few hours. And we need to come up with an airtight cover story before dinner.
I glance at my fake wife.
She’s perched on the arm of the leather sofa, watching me with wide eyes. Waiting to see what I’ll say. The afternoon sun streams through the windows behind her, making her curls glow in a dark halo around her face.
For a moment, I forget Lila is even in the room poking at my injured leg.
Fuck, indeed.