Four #3
My stomach knots instantly, but I force a polite smile. Amber doesn’t do friendly. Every interaction with her feels like a game where I don’t know the rules, and she’s holding all the cards.
“Thanks,” I say, clutching my keys so tightly they dig into my palm. “We’re looking forward to it.”
Her eyes narrow slightly, scanning my face like she’s searching for cracks in the story. “I just can’t believe it. You and him? I mean, he’s so . . . you know . . .”
I know where this is going. She’s fishing, throwing out the bait, and waiting for me to take it. “Charming? Funny? Devastatingly handsome?” I suggest, my smile stiff and brittle as I try to wrestle control of the conversation.
Amber’s lips curve into a smirk, the kind that makes me want to wipe it off her face with a well-aimed coffee cup. “Sure,” she drawls, her tone oozing scepticism. “I just . . . didn’t see it coming. You two seem so . . . different.”
Her emphasis on the last word hangs in the air, a barbed hook designed to dig under my skin. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, and not in a good way. Different is Amber’s polite way of saying she doesn’t think I’m good enough for Austin. Or that I don’t belong in his orbit.
“Well, opposites attract,” I say, keeping my tone light even though my insides are twisting.
Amber tilts her head, her blonde waves shifting like an ad for some fancy shampoo. “I suppose they do,” she muses, but her eyes tell a different story. She doesn’t believe it. Not for a second.
I’m torn between the urge to defend whatever this mess between Austin and me is supposed to be, and the very real fear that Amber’s too sharp not to see through the cracks. The truth is, Austin and I are different. He’s polished charm, effortless charisma. I’m . . . well, not that.
But that doesn’t mean Amber gets to dissect it like she’s on some twisted reality show panel.
“We’ll see you Saturday,” she says finally, her tone breezy but her smirk anything but. With a little wave, she turns, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she walks away, leaving me standing there, stewing.
The second she’s out of sight, I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding. My hands are trembling slightly, and I grip the strap of my bag to steady them.
Why does she get to me like this?
I pivot toward the postboxes, fumbling with my key. My fingers are clumsy, still jittery from the encounter, and I curse under my breath when the key slips. Behind me, the echo of Amber’s heels fades, replaced by the low murmur of someone entering the lobby.
I don’t need to look up to know who it is.
“Amber?” Austin’s voice carries across the space, smooth and warm, with just the right hint of surprise.
Of course, he’d show up now.
I steal a glance over my shoulder. Amber’s turned back, her smile growing wider, her head tilted in that way she probably thinks makes her look coy.
“Austin!” she trills, her tone suddenly dripping with syrupy sweetness. “I was just catching up with Mia.”
I straighten, forcing my shoulders back as Austin strides past me toward her. He’s a study in effortless confidence, his jeans perfectly fitted, his white T-shirt annoyingly crisp. He looks like the poster child for “fiancé of the year,” and it makes me want to throttle him.
“You’re looking well,” he says, his eyes skimming her in that casually polite way that seems to disarm everyone but me.
Ok, maybe even me.
“Thanks,” Amber says, twirling a strand of her hair. Seriously? Is that still a thing people do?
Austin’s gaze shifts to me, and his smile softens—just a fraction, but it’s enough to make my pulse stutter. “You alright, babe?”
Babe. He’s really leaning into this.
“Fine,” I manage, swallowing the irritation rising in my throat.
Amber’s eyes flick between us, taking in the dynamic like she’s a spectator at some fucked up play. “You two are just adorable,” she says, her voice practically dripping with insincerity.
“We aim to please,” Austin replies smoothly, his arm sliding around my waist like it belongs there. The warmth of his touch seeps through my blouse, grounding me in a way I don’t expect.
Amber’s smile tightens. “Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it. See you Saturday!”
She walks away, her heels clicking with determination this time, and the silence she leaves behind feels deafening.
Austin’s arm drops, but he doesn’t move away. “She’s a piece of work, isn’t she?” he murmurs, his tone laced with amusement.
“You have no idea,” I mutter, finally prying open my postbox.
His chuckle is low and rumbling, and I hate how much I notice it. “You did good, though. You held your own.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got to get used to this, don’t I?” I glance at him, trying to sound indifferent, but his steady gaze makes my breath hitch.
“You don’t have to do it alone,” he says, his voice softer now.
Something in his tone makes my chest tighten, and I hate the flicker of vulnerability it stirs.
This isn’t real. I remind myself.
But for a moment, standing here with him, it almost feels like it could be.
FRIDAY
AUSTIN’S FLAT IS IRRITATINGLY perfect, just like him.
Every detail—from the sharp, clean lines of the furniture to the artfully scattered books on his coffee table—looks effortlessly curated.
It’s the kind of space that screams I’m successful but too laid-back to care.
I wonder briefly if he hired a designer or if this is just another part of his infuriating charm.
Meanwhile, I’m pacing the kitchen, trying to focus, while he leans against the counter like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s watching me, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at his lips, like this is all some kind of game.
“Amber’s going to be watching us like a hawk,” I say for what feels like the hundredth time. “She’ll be analysing everything. One wrong move, and she’ll know.”
Austin’s lips twitch as he picks up his glass of water, swirling it like it’s a fine wine. “Let her watch,” he says, his voice maddeningly calm. “The more she stares, the more she’ll see how real we are.”
I stop pacing and glare at him. “Do you even hear yourself? This isn’t some casual stroll through the park. Amber’s not just going to watch; she’s going to interrogate. She’ll find every crack, every inconsistency.”
Austin sets his glass down, his movements slow and deliberate. “Mia,” he says, his tone steady, “you worry too much. All we have to do is act like we’re crazy about each other.”
I let out a sharp laugh, running a hand through my hair. “That’s easy for you to say. You can turn on the charm like it’s a light switch. I’m not exactly known for being . . . touchy-feely.”
Austin tilts his head, studying me like I’m a particularly challenging puzzle. His smirk fades, replaced by something more thoughtful. “You might be surprised, Mia.”
The way he says it—low, deliberate, almost intimate—makes my stomach tighten. I cross my arms over my chest, trying to mask the flicker of unease his words spark. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
He steps closer, closing some of the space between us, and suddenly the kitchen feels smaller, warmer. His scent—woodsy and clean—seems to wrap around me like a blanket, and I hate how it makes my head swim.
“It means,” he says softly, “you’re better at this than you think. You just need to stop overthinking everything.”
I blink up at him, thrown by the sincerity in his tone. His face is close enough that I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the slight curve of his mouth. There’s no teasing smirk this time, no playful glint in his eyes. Just . . . him.
My pulse quickens, and I take a step back, breaking whatever spell he’s trying to cast. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re a natural at pretending.”
His lips twitch, but his gaze stays steady. “Maybe. But this isn’t all pretending, Mia.”
My breath catches, and for a moment, I’m not sure if it’s anger, confusion, or something else entirely bubbling up inside me. I shove the thought down, refusing to let it take root. “We need a plan,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady.
Austin sighs, pushing off the counter. “Alright, boss. What’s the plan?”
I glance away, pretending to study the sleek appliances lining his kitchen. Anything to avoid the weight of his gaze. “We need to come up with believable stories. How we met, how you proposed, what we love about each other. The details matter.”
He steps closer again, and I feel the warmth of his presence even though he doesn’t touch me. “What I love about you?” he repeats, his voice low and teasing.
I glance at him, narrowing my eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, and he leans in just enough to make my heart stutter. “Oh, Jameson,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with amusement. “It’s already weird.”
I roll my eyes, shoving past him to grab a pen and paper from the counter. “Fine. Let’s get to work.”
But even as we start brainstorming, his earlier words echo in my mind. This isn’t all pretending.
It’s ridiculous, of course. This is nothing more than a charade. A ridiculous, messy charade. But the way he looks at me sometimes, the way his voice softens when he says my name—it feels too real.
And that scares me more than Amber ever could.