Four
The Longest Week
MIA
Monday
“ALRIGHT,” I SAY, PACING the length of my living room like a General preparing for battle. “We need to get our story straight.”
Austin is sprawled out on my sofa, looking far too comfortable for someone who is my fake fiancé. He tosses a piece of popcorn into his mouth with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Alright, boss,” he drawls, his tone thick with amusement. “Let’s hear it. How did we meet? What’s our great love story?”
I stop mid-step, crossing my arms as I glare at him. “You’re the creative one. Why don’t you come up with something?”
He tilts his head, his lips curling into a slow, infuriating smirk. “Alright. Picture this. We met in Paris. I was brooding in a smoky jazz bar, drowning my sorrows in whiskey after a devastating breakup—”
“Stop.” I hold up a hand, already exasperated. “You’re not the lead in a Nicholas Sparks novel.”
“Fine.” His smirk widens, and he props himself up on his elbows like he’s settling in for a good time. “How about this: we met in a boxing ring? You knocked me out cold, and I fell madly in love with you. Classic enemies to lovers.”
“Try again,” I deadpan, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Austin leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looks at me with mock seriousness. “How about we stick to the truth? We met in this building. You were hauling ten bags of groceries up the stairs, and I gallantly offered to help.”
“Gallantly?” I arch an eyebrow. “You offered to help because I dropped a carton of eggs, and you stepped on it.”
“Details, Mia. Details.” He waves a dismissive hand.
“It’s still a perfect meet-cute. I rescued you from the perils of grocery shopping.
Or, we could always use the club story. You know, the one where I come steaming in on a white horse and punch the shit out of that guy on the dance floor? ” He wiggles his eyebrows at me.
Smug git.
I let out a sigh, too tired to argue, and too embarrassed to relive my drunk escapade the other night. “Fine. We’ll go with the grocery story. At least it’s plausible.”
“And the engagement?”
I pause, biting my lip as I think it over. “Maybe you proposed last Christmas. It’s romantic and far enough back to make it believable.”
“Christmas?” His voice drips with mock horror. “You think I’d pick the most cliché day of the year to pop the question?”
“Well, you didn’t actually propose, so forgive me if I don’t know your imaginary preferences,” I snap, throwing my hands in the air.
Austin chuckles, his broad shoulders shaking with laughter as he leans back against the sofa. “Alright, Christmas it is. But we’re going to need a ring. You know that, right?”
The mention of a ring sends a jolt of panic through me.
Of course.
People will expect to see one.
I falter, my voice barely above a whisper. “I said it was being resized . . .”
Austin’s teasing smirk fades slightly, replaced with something softer, almost reassuring. “Relax, Jameson,” he says, his voice low and steady. “I’ll take care of it.”
I narrow my eyes at him, suspicious. “You’ll . . . take care of it?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’ve got a mate who owns a jewellery shop. We’ll get you something flashy enough to impress Amber, but not so over-the-top that it screams fake.”
I nod slowly, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Austin is actually taking this seriously—well, as seriously as Austin takes anything.
“Anything else, fiancée?” he asks, his voice laced with mockery as he pops another piece of popcorn into his mouth.
“Yes.” I point a finger at him, my glare sharp enough to cut glass. “You better not screw this up.”
He raises his hand like he’s taking an oath, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. “I solemnly swear to be the perfect fake fiancé. Charming, attentive, and just the right amount of sexy.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “This is going to be a disaster.”
Austin grins, his confidence as infuriating as ever. “Nah. It’s going to be fun. You’ll see.”
And as he lounges on my sofa, looking like he owns the place, I can’t help but wonder how I’ve let myself get dragged into this mess.
TUESDAY
I STARE AT THE door for a moment, gripping the garment bag like it might explode.
Typical Austin.
Who does he think he is, deciding what I should wear? Probably something skin-tight and barely there, just to wind me up.
Tossing the bag onto the sofa, I unzip it with more force than necessary, ready to be outraged. But instead of the garish nightmare I’m expecting, I find . . . elegance.
The dress is stunning—sleek, black, and classic, with a hint of shimmer that catches the light. It’s understated but bold, sophisticated without trying too hard.
He’s nailed it.
Damn him.
I hold it up, letting the soft fabric slide between my fingers, and notice a note pinned to the hanger. “Knew you’d love it. A x.”
Smug bastard.
There’s a knock at the door, like he’s read my mind and knows I’m holding the dress. I yank the door open, and there he is, leaning against the frame, that infuriating grin plastered across his stupidly handsome face.
“Well?” he drawls, eyes flicking to the dress in my hand. “You can thank me any time now.”
I glare at him, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
“You’re welcome,” he says, his grin widening.
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“You didn’t have to.” He steps past me into the flat like he owns the place, plopping himself onto my sofa and grabbing the TV remote. “So, try it on.”
“What?”
“The dress,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I need to see if it fits. Can’t have my fake fiancée turning up in something that doesn’t look perfect.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You are the most—”
“Charming man you’ve ever met?” he interrupts, winking at me.
I throw the dress at his head. “Get out.”
“Not until you try it on,” he says, holding it up like it’s a trophy. “Come on, Jameson. Humour me.”
I huff, snatch the dress back, and stomp towards my bedroom. “You’re impossible!”
“And you love it!” he calls after me, laughter in his voice.
As I close the door, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my pulse is racing, and I hate how much I enjoy sparring with him.
Pulling the dress on, I smooth it over my hips and glance at my reflection.
Damn. It fits like a glove.
How the hell does he do that?
When I step back into the living room, Austin’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before his usual smirk takes over.
“Well?” I ask, trying to sound indifferent.
He stands, slowly, his gaze sweeping over me like he’s taking mental notes. “You’ll do,” he says, but his voice is lower, softer than usual.
I roll my eyes, but my stomach flips anyway. “You’re such a pain.”
“And you’re stunning,” he counters, his smirk softening into something that almost looks sincere.
It’s disarming, and for a second, I forget this is all fake.
Only for a second.
Austin doesn’t take his eyes off me, and it’s unnerving. Usually, he’s all cocky banter and teasing grins, but this? This is different.
I clear my throat, breaking the spell. “Alright, you’ve seen it. Now go.”
“Go?” He arches an eyebrow, leaning back against the arm of the sofa like he has all the time in the world. “Not a chance. We’ve got work to do.”
“Work?”
“Practice.”
I blink at him, confused. “Practice what?”
“Being engaged.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “You’re joking.”
“Dead serious,” he replies, crossing his arms. “Amber’s going to be watching us like a hawk at that party. If we’re going to sell this, we need to look the part. We need to look like we actually like each other.”
I glare at him. “I do like you. Sometimes. When you’re not being . . . you.”
Austin places his hand on his heart. “Touching,” he says, smirking. “But liking isn’t enough. We need chemistry, Mia. Sparks. The kind of connection that makes people believe we’re head over heels in love.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “And you think we can fake that?”
“Oh, I know we can,” he says, stepping closer, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “But it takes practice. So, come on, fiancée. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I roll my eyes. “This is ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously important,” he counters, taking my hand and pulling me towards him. “Lesson one: looking like you actually want to touch me.”
I yank my hand back. “I don’t need lessons for this.”
“Clearly, you do,” he holds his hand out again. “Go on. Take it. Pretend you adore me.”
Grumbling under my breath, I place my hand in his. His fingers close around mine, warm and firm, and suddenly, the teasing look in his eyes falters.
For a moment, it’s just us, standing too close, our hands tangled together.
“See?” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “Easy.”
His eyes flick to mine, and there’s a flicker of something I don’t recognise. “Not bad,” he says softly.
I step back, letting go of his hand. “Lesson over.”
“Not quite,” he says, but his voice has lost some of its usual arrogance.
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Saved by the bell.
I grab it, grateful for the distraction. It’s a Facebook message from Amber.
Amber: Looking forward to meeting your fiancé properly this weekend. It’ll be so fun to see how perfect you two are together. Can’t wait to catch up! Xoxo
I groan, showing Austin the message. “She’s already planning her interrogation.”
Austin grins, the cocky edge returning. “Good thing you’ve got me, then. Stick with me, kiddo, and we’ll have her eating out of the palm of our hands.”
I roll my eyes. “This is going to be a disaster.”
“No, it won’t,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Not with us. We’ve got this, Mia.”
I hate how much I want to believe him.
WEDNESDAY