Four #2
AUSTIN LIFTS HIS WINE glass, swirling the deep crimson liquid with a maddening kind of elegance.
The dim restaurant lighting dances across the sharp angles of his jaw, casting him in a golden glow that’s almost cinematic.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’d been plucked straight from some overproduced cologne advert.
I’d admire the aesthetic more if he wasn’t so infuriatingly aware of it.
“You know,” he starts, his voice as smooth as the vintage he’s savouring, “for someone pretending to be head-over-heels in love with me, you’re doing a shockingly bad job selling it.”
I narrow my eyes at him, the flickering candlelight catching the gleam of his smirk. “Maybe that’s because my so-called fiancé is an unbearable pain in the arse.”
“Ah, but I’m your pain in the arse,” he counters, leaning back in his chair with the kind of swagger that’s both exasperating and somehow slightly charming. “Now, give me a smile. You know, like I’m the man of your dreams.”
I force my lips into something that vaguely resembles a smile. It’s stiff and unconvincing, but frankly, he doesn’t deserve any better. “Happy now?”
Austin tilts his head, studying me like I’m an art piece he doesn’t quite understand. “Closer,” he says, stroking his chin dramatically. “But try not to look like you’re planning my untimely demise.”
“Tempting,” I mutter, stabbing my fork into the tiramisu with a little too much force. The velvety dessert does nothing to soothe the irritation bubbling inside me.
A passing waiter glances our way, his brow furrowed slightly, as if sensing the disaster unfolding at our table.
Fabulous. Even strangers can tell this is a farce.
Austin leans forward suddenly, his elbows resting on the table, and his hand slides across to cover mine. His touch is warm, his long fingers wrapping around mine with an ease that’s unsettlingly intimate. My instinct is to pull away, but I freeze instead, completely caught off guard.
“There,” he says, his voice softer now, the usual teasing edge replaced with something quieter. “That’s convincing.”
His thumb brushes small circles over my knuckles, sending an involuntary shiver up my spine. I can feel my heartbeat quicken, and I silently curse my body for betraying me like this.
“I . . . guess it looks convincing,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Good.” He holds my gaze for a second longer, and it feels like the entire restaurant falls away. Then, as quickly as he reached for me, he pulls back, the smirk returning to his lips as if nothing happened.
“Right,” he says, reclining once more, “now it’s time to up our game. Tell me something only I’d know about you.”
I blink, my mind scrambling to catch up. “What?”
“It’s what couples do,” he explains, waving a hand casually. “Inside jokes, secret quirks—stuff that makes people gag because we’re so ‘in love.’”
I roll my eyes but play along. “Fine. I hate peanut butter. Can’t stand the stuff.”
He arches an eyebrow. “That’s not a personality trait, Mia.”
“Alright, genius,” I shoot back, leaning forward to challenge him, “what’s something I should know about you?”
A wicked grin spreads across his face, and his eyes gleam with mischief. “When I was seventeen, I had to escape out of a girl’s bathroom window—naked—when her dad came home early.”
The laugh that bursts out of me is so sudden I nearly choke on my wine. “You’re joking.”
“Not even a little,” he says, grinning wider. “It was a very educational experience.”
I shake my head, unable to suppress a reluctant smile. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he says, gesturing between us with a flourish, “here we are.”
When the bill arrives, I instinctively reach for my bag, but Austin is quicker. He snatches it up and hands over his card without hesitation. “My treat,” he says, flashing me a grin. “Wouldn’t be very fiancé-like of me to let you pay, would it?”
Outside, the crisp evening air hits my skin as we step onto the quiet street. The city lights shimmer around us, their soft glow making everything feel a little too magical for what is supposed to be a strictly fake relationship.
Austin’s hand settles lightly on the small of my back, steering me towards his car with an ease that feels practiced. The warmth of his touch seeps through my jacket, and I hate how natural it feels.
“You know,” he says, his voice breaking the silence, “you might actually survive this whole fake fiancée thing.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I reply, my tone dry, though the corner of my mouth betrays me with a twitch of amusement.
He opens the car door for me with an exaggerated bow. “Of course. You’re in the best hands. I’m the perfect fake fiancé.”
Rolling my eyes, I slide into the seat, but I can’t deny the flutter of something in my chest.
God help me, this might just be the most exhausting—and confusing—engagement of my life.
THE EVENING HAD STARTED as a tactical exercise—a dress rehearsal for our fake engagement.
Austin insisted we needed to “test the waters” before Amber’s party, to see how convincingly we could sell the whole act.
That’s how I found myself sitting across from him at an upscale restaurant, our hands intertwined over a candlelit table, while we practiced being madly in love.
I’d spent the night suppressing eye-rolls while Austin turned on his signature charm, laughing too loudly at his own jokes and pulling faces at me whenever the waiter wasn’t looking.
The whole thing was ridiculous—and apparently effective.
The older couple seated near us had whispered and smiled at us like we were the poster children for young love.
Now, as we drive back, my thoughts swirl. Did we really pull it off? Was this whole charade just going to blow up in our faces?
Austin’s humming a random tune under his breath, one hand resting casually on the wheel, and the other on the gear stick, while I stare out at the glowing cityscape. It’s unnerving how he can be so relaxed about this. Meanwhile, I feel like my brain is spinning out of control.
“So,” he says, breaking the silence, “I think tonight was a roaring success. If Amber had been there, she’d be swallowing her jealousy whole.”
I snort, glancing at him. “Success? Austin, I nearly stabbed you with a breadstick when you told the waiter we were honeymooning in Tuscany.”
He shrugs, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Like I said, Jameson, it's all in the details. Everyone loves a good honeymoon story. Plus, we’re supposed to be that annoyingly in-love couple that over shares.”
“Annoying is the key word here,” I mutter.
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “You’re just mad because you had to hold my hand.”
“I’m mad because you kept squeezing it like a stress ball every time I ignored one of your stupid jokes,” I shoot back.
“Passion, Mia.” He flashes me a grin so infuriatingly smug I want to reach over and shove him. “Our fake love is dripping with it.”
“Say ‘passion’ one more time, and I’ll shove that gear stick where the sun doesn’t shine,” I warn.
He lets out a deep laugh, and it fills the car and despite my best efforts, I can’t completely suppress the small smile tugging at my lips. He has this way of turning everything into a joke—one of the many reasons why this whole arrangement is both tolerable and maddening.
As we pull into the car park outside our building, Austin parks the car and leans back in his seat, exhaling like he’s just finished a long day at the office. Neither of us makes a move to get out.
“You were good tonight,” he says, his voice softer now, more serious.
I glance at him, caught off guard. “Good at what?”
“At being my fiancée,” he says simply, his eyes meeting mine in the dim light of the car. “Amber’s not going to know what hit her.”
Something in his tone—sincere, almost reassuring—makes me pause. For a split second, I almost forget this is all a game.
“Well,” I say, shrugging off the sudden tightness in my chest, “I’ve had years of practice pretending to like you.”
“There’s my Mia.” His smirk returns, and the spell is broken. He pops open his door, his voice light again. “Come on. Let’s get you inside before you come up with another reason to murder me.”
We step out into the cool night air, and I pull my coat tighter around me as we head inside. The lobby is quiet, our footsteps echoing as we wait for the lift.
Inside the lift, Austin leans casually against the wall, his shoulder brushing mine. The faintest hint of his aftershave lingers in the small space, warm and woodsy, and I wish I didn’t notice it as much as I do.
“You know,” he says, his tone teasing, “this is the part where I’d walk you to your door and kiss you goodnight.”
I shoot him a sidelong glance. “You’re not kissing me.”
“Not even for practice?” His grin is back, playful and infuriating.
“No.”
He presses a hand to his chest, feigning hurt. “you wound me, fiancée. Truly. What if I need to rehearse for our grand performance?”
The lift dings, and I step out quickly, eager to escape this conversation. “Goodnight, Austin.”
“Goodnight, babe” he calls after me, his voice trailing behind me like an irritating little reminder of the chaos I’ve willingly signed up for.
Once inside my flat, I lock the door, lean against it, and let out a long breath. My chest feels tight, my brain spinning with all the things that could go wrong.
This is fine.
This is going to work.
I just have to keep reminding myself that this is temporary.
That this is fake.
He is my fake forever.
THURSDAY
AMBER CATCHES ME JUST as I’m stepping out of the lift. She’s leaning against the wall near the postboxes, her designer bag casually slung over her arm and a gleaming, predatory smile plastered across her face.
“Mia!” she chirps, her voice dripping with faux excitement. “I’ve been meaning to catch you. So excited to see you and Austin on Saturday!”