Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Briar
Ilearn very quickly that a fake fiancé doesn’t behave the way Saxon Cole behaves.
Fake fiancés don’t show up on your porch three evenings in a row like it’s a second job. They don’t bring bags of groceries. They don’t fix things without being asked. And they definitely don’t make your daughter look at them like they hung the moon.
But Saxon does all of it.
And the worst part?
I let him.
The first night he shows up after shift, he stands on my porch in uniform pants, a black T-shirt that should be illegal, and a bag of food in one hand.
“I didn’t ask you to come,” I blurt before my brain can edit.
“You didn’t have to,” he replies, stepping past me into my house like he belongs here. “You hungry?”
My stomach growls at the exact second Junie barrels in from the living room yelling, “CAPTAIN SAXON!”
He lifts her with one arm like she weighs nothing. “Hey, kid.”
Junie beams. “Are you my mom’s fiancé for real?”
My lungs stop working.
Saxon doesn't even blink. “For now.”
The confidence. The absolute lack of hesitation. It hits me so hard I nearly drop the mail in my hands.
Junie squeals and squirms out of his arms. “We’re making macaroni pictures! Come on!”
He sets the groceries down on the counter and follows her without even checking with me. Like he’s been doing this his whole life. Like he’s been in my house a hundred times.
Like this isn’t fake.
“Where’s your glue?” he asks Junie.
“In the red bin!”
He crouches beside her at the coffee table, big body folding into her tiny world so seamlessly it’s unfair.
I stand in the doorway watching them, glued to the floor.
He glances over his shoulder at me—just once, quick, but enough to steal every breath I have.
Like he knows what he’s doing. Knows exactly how it affects me.
He goes back to helping Junie glue noodles into the shape of what I think is meant to be a dog but honestly looks like a potato with legs.
“Perfect,” he tells her, tone deep and warm.
I melt. Right to the damn floor.
The next night, he brings a toolbox.
“I don’t need anything fixed,” I say as he walks in.
“Your cabinet hinge is loose.”
“How do you know that?”
“You don’t shut it right.”
“That’s just how it is.”
“No,” he says simply, “it’s not.”
He pulls the hinge apart, tightens something with rough, capable hands, and closes it.
Click. Perfect.
I cross my arms. “You can’t just go around fixing things in my house like you own it.”
He looks up at me, eyes steady. “If this engagement’s gonna look real, I need to be here.”
My heart thuds. Loud. Annoying.
“You could just tell people we see each other sometimes.”
“No,” he says calmly. “They’d never believe it.”
“Why not?”
His eyes drop to my mouth. “I don’t see you sometimes.”
I go hot all over.
“Junie wants you,” he says suddenly, breaking the tension before I combust. “She’s got another macaroni project.”
“Oh God.”
“Brace yourself.”
I don’t get the chance. Junie drags him down the hall like she’s recruiting him for a covert mission. And he follows. Again. Like it’s becoming routine.
The following night, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that Saxon Cole is the kind of man who decides something needs doing—and then just… does it.
And apparently, what needs doing is spending evenings at my house.
Tonight he’s in a charcoal hoodie pulled tight around his shoulders, and it should not be legal for a sweatshirt to look that good on a man.
He holds a grocery bag up in a silent greeting. “You got food?”
“Yes.”
“Edible food?”
“I can cook.”
“Uh-huh.”
I scowl. He smirks.
Then he walks right past me.
“Where’s the light that's flickering?” he asks.
“What light?”
He jerks his chin toward the hallway. “The one that buzzes like a pissed-off bee.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“You don’t listen.”
I bristle. “I listen.”
He pauses mid-stride, turns toward me slowly, and gives me a look that steals the air from my lungs.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “Then listen now.”
I hate him. Not really. But kind of.
He fixes the hallway bulb in ten seconds, then tucks Junie into bed with that gravelly voice that should be classified as a weapon.
“Goodnight kid,” he says, smoothing her blanket with surprising gentleness.
“Night Captain Saxon,” she mumbles sleepily.
He closes her door halfway and steps past me into the kitchen.
I follow because apparently my legs belong to him now.
And that’s when everything shifts.
The kitchen lights glow soft and warm. The house is quiet. My nerves are loud enough to drown out thought.
I reach for a plate in the cabinet above the counter—my arms never quite long enough for the top shelf.
I stretch onto my toes, fingers brushing the edge of the ceramic. I wobble. And then strong hands clamp around my waist. I gasp, gripping the cabinet door to steady myself.
“Careful,” he murmurs. Right behind me. Too close. Too warm. His chest brushes my back. His breath hits my ear. My body goes molten.
“I— I almost had it,” I whisper.
“You almost fell,” he counters, voice low enough to curl inside my stomach.
“I didn’t.”
“You would’ve.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“You’re—” I can’t say anything coherent because he’s still holding my waist. My skin burns under his fingers. Slowly—so slowly I hate him for it—his hands glide upward, thumbs brushing beneath my ribs before he steadies my hips.
I freeze.
He looks down at me from behind, breathing hard. I can feel every inch of him. Every breath. Every bit of tension he’s trying and failing to hide.
“Let me,” he murmurs.
He reaches over me, arm brushing my hair aside as he plucks the plate easily with one hand.
His body molds around mine. His breath ghosts along my neck.
I tremble. Not subtly. He notices.
His mouth is so close I swear I feel the shape of his next words against my skin.
“You good?” he asks.
“No.”
The word slips out without my permission. He inhales sharply. My fingers grip the counter because my knees aren’t reliable right now.
“Briar,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “look at me.”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re—”
“Because I’m what?”
“Too close.”
He chuckles—dark, soft, dangerous. “I haven’t even touched you.”
“Yes, you have,” I whisper.
His hands still on my waist. His thumbs press a fraction deeper. Barely. But enough to send sparks through my entire body.
“Then tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
I open my mouth but nothing comes out.
His grip tightens—possessive, claiming—but not pulling me back, not dragging me into him. Just holding.
“Thought so,” he breathes.
He leans in and then he stops. He pulls his hands away like he’s been burned. Steps back. Shakes his head once, jaw tight enough to crack.
His chest rises hard. Too hard. He won’t look at me.
“Saxon?” I whisper.
He exhales like someone punched him in the ribs. “Shouldn’t do this.”
“Do what?” My voice is barely a sound.
“This,” he snaps, gesturing toward the space between us that suddenly feels miles too wide. “Touching you. Standing that close. Thinking about—”
He cuts himself off.
I grip the edge of the counter until the laminate digs into my palms. “Thinking about what?”
He looks at me then. Really looks. Like I’m a lit match and he’s doused in gasoline.
“Don’t make me say it,” he growls.
“Say what?”
“Briar.”
My name sounds different in his mouth. Rough. Sharp. Almost like a warning. Or a promise.
“I shouldn’t be here like this,” he says, dragging a hand over his jaw. “Not when we’re pretending.”
Right. Pretending. My stomach twists.
“We are pretending,” I remind him.
He laughs once—dry, humorless. “You keep telling yourself that if it helps you sleep.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, stepping in just long enough for me to feel the heat coming off him again, “I don’t pretend well. Not about this.”
My breath stutters. “Saxon—”
And then he’s gone. Not out of the house. Just out of the kitchen. He moves to the hallway, palms braced on the wall beside Junie’s art, head bowed. Breathing hard. Fighting something. Losing.
I follow him because apparently I never learned self-preservation. He looks up slowly, and the restraint in his eyes is almost violent.
“Don’t walk over here,” he warns.
I stop. Barely. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.”
“I just—”
“Briar,” he murmurs, voice dropping so low it vibrates through me, “if you come one step closer to me right now, I won’t stop at almost.”
My stomach flips. My pulse slams.
“Saxon…”
He drags a hand through his hair. “Tell me to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
His head snaps up. Those dark eyes sharpen. Lock on mine. Pin me.
“Then you need to tell me something else,” he says. “Tell me what you want.” I open my mouth. Silence. His jaw flexes. “That’s what I thought.”
He pushes off the wall, walks past me, grabs his jacket from the hook. He pauses at the door. Not looking back. Not needing to. “I’ll be here tomorrow,” he says quietly. “Same time.”
My heart stutters. “Why?”
He finally turns. His eyes scorch. “Because engaged men show up. And because I want to.”
Heat floods me.
He steps outside, pulls the door shut behind him—and I’m left in my kitchen alone, breathless, and shaking because we both know the truth neither of us is allowed to say out loud: the engagement might be fake, but nothing else is.