Eight #2
As I step into the lift, with Austin close behind me, I realise something terrifying.
I don’t want this to be pretend anymore, either.
I SIT CROSS-LEGGED on my living room floor, my laptop perched precariously on the coffee table.
A spreadsheet for my salon expansion glows on the screen, mocking me with its endless columns of numbers.
Cost analysis, supplier quotes, staffing projections—I’m supposed to be figuring out if I can afford to hire another stylist. Instead, I’ve been staring at cell B34 for the last ten minutes, completely distracted.
The culprit? A certain maddeningly charming architect who, despite my best efforts, refuses to leave my thoughts.
Austin.
Even his name sends a shiver down my spine, which is infuriating because it’s just a name. A few vowels, some consonants—it shouldn’t have this kind of power.
But here I am, hopelessly sidetracked by the memory of his laugh, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, and that damn kiss.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, and I force myself to focus. I’m a business owner. I’ve got things to do, like figuring out how to pay for the new shampoo station I promised my newest stylist.
The salon isn’t going to run itself.
But then my phone buzzes on the table, and my resolve crumbles.
Austin: Just saw a building with the worst design ever. Made me think of you.
I frown at the message, rereading it twice before rolling my eyes. “Made me think of you”? I read aloud. What’s that supposed to mean? Is he teasing me? Or was that his weird version of flirting? Either way, it’s working because now I’m smiling like an idiot.
I toss the phone back onto the table and glare at the spreadsheet like it personally offended me. “Get it together, Mia,” I mutter, taking a sip of my now lukewarm tea.
The numbers blur again, and my mind drifts to last night.
The kiss.
The way his hands felt on my waist. The way he pulled back just enough to look at me like he was waiting for permission to dive in again.
“Ugh!” I groan, slamming the laptop shut and flopping onto the sofa.
This is ridiculous.
The knock at the door startles me, and my stomach flips like it already knows who’s standing on the other side. I hesitate for a moment before getting up and swinging the door open.
And there he is.
Austin, in all his stupidly perfect glory, holding a bag of chinese takeaway and wearing that grin that makes my knees weak.
“Thought you could use a break,” he says, brushing past me like he owns the place.
I close the door, watching him head straight for the kitchen. “You can’t just show up unannounced,” I call after him, trying to sound annoyed and not like my heart is doing cartwheels.
He turns, raising an eyebrow. “Relax, Jameson. It’s food, not a marriage proposal.”
My stomach growls at the smell wafting from the bag, and I hate how smug he looks. “I’m serious, Austin. This—” I gesture between us. “This isn’t part of the deal. We’re supposed to be keeping things simple. Which part of that don’t you understand?”
He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “And grabbing dinner isn’t simple?”
I fold my arms, glaring at him. “It’s not about the dinner. It’s about . . .”
“What?” he prompts, his voice soft but teasing.
“It’s about you!” I blurt, my face heating. “You’re too . . . you. And I’m trying to focus on my salon, and you’re over here being distracting and . . . ugh, just stop being so you all the time.”
His lips twitch, like he’s fighting back a laugh. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Sure, it wasn’t.”
I groan, flopping onto the sofa. “I have a spreadsheet to finish, Austin. A very important spreadsheet. And you’re making it impossible.”
He grins, pulling two plates from the kitchen cupboard like he’s lived here his whole life. “Well, spreadsheets can wait. Eat first. Then you can go back to pretending you’re not thinking about me.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he’s already setting a plate in front of me. And as much as I hate to admit it, the smell is heavenly.
He sits across from me, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “So, what’s this spreadsheet about? Is it your master plan to take over the world?”
“It’s for the salon,” I mumble, picking up a fork. “I’m trying to figure out if I can afford to hire someone else.”
His expression softens, and for a moment, he looks genuinely impressed. “That’s amazing, Mia. You’re amazing.”
And just like that, my heart does that stupid flip-flop thing again.
I’m doomed.
I shake my head, trying to push the warmth in my chest away. “It’s not that impressive. I’m just trying to keep the business afloat and maybe expand a little if I can figure out the numbers.”
Austin leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I think it’s impressive,” he says softly. “Building something from the ground up. Making it work. That takes guts, and not everyone has the guts to do it.”
I feel my cheeks flush at the sincerity in his voice.
“Thanks,” I mumble, looking down at the plate he places in front of me like it might somehow hold the answers.
If I just focus on the food, maybe it’ll distract me from the way his words have settled in my chest, curling around my heart like a warm, sticky mess.
“Seriously though,” Austin continues, his tone shifting slightly as he takes a bite of his Kung Pao Chicken, “you’ve got this. You’re smart, you’re driven. You’ll figure it out. I have no doubt.”
I force a smile, even though inside, I’m a mess of conflicting emotions.
On one hand, he’s right. I am trying. I’ve been working my arse off for the salon, for my future.
But on the other hand, there’s Austin. With his way too charming smile, and his way too sexy laugh, and his damn compliments that make me forget all the ways I’ve convinced myself this is just a charade, and that he is my fake forever.
I clear my throat, trying to steer the conversation back to something safer. “Thanks. I guess.”
But Austin isn’t letting me off the hook that easily. He leans back, eyeing me with that mischievous glint in his eyes that I’ve come to recognise far too well. “So, back to the spreadsheet. How much longer before I can convince you to give it up and come out with me for some fun?”
I roll my eyes, even as a small laugh escapes my lips. “Go out? It’s Monday night, Austin, and you can’t just ask me to drop everything whenever you feel like it.”
“Why not? You deserve a break. A real break,” he says, his voice soft, like he’s trying to coax me into agreeing. “You've been working nonstop. And trust me, no one needs a spreadsheet to tell them you’re running on fumes.”
I hesitate, my fingers tracing the edge of my plate.
The truth is, I am tired. I’ve been so focused on the salon and trying to keep up with the lie that sometimes I forget to stop and breathe.
And, despite everything—despite how confused I am about what this whole thing with Austin even is—there’s a part of me that wants to take that break.
But . . .
“But I can’t just put it all aside,” I say, the words coming out more defensively than I mean. “I can’t just stop working on this like it’s no big deal.”
He studies me for a moment, his gaze softening. “I know. But you also don’t have to do it alone, Mia.”
I freeze, suddenly feeling exposed under his gaze. “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer right away, instead he places his plate aside and folds his arms. “What I’m saying is .
. . you’re not in this by yourself, ok? If you ever need help, or just someone to talk to about anything—not just the salon, but everything—I’m here.
I’m not just pretending to be your fiancé for the sake of some fake engagement. I’m here. In the real world.”
I blink, my pulse racing.
Here.
The word hangs in the air, heavier than I expect.
I don’t know what to say. I want to believe him, but at the same time, I’m terrified that the more I do, the harder it’ll be to untangle all of this. The lie, the feelings, the unspoken connection that’s growing between us.
He seems to read the hesitation on my face because he grins, and I can see the humor return to his eyes. “Ok, ok. I’m not trying to guilt-trip you. I know how stubborn you are. But seriously, you’re doing amazing. And when you get stressed out or overwhelmed, I’m not going anywhere.”
I look away, pretending to be more interested in my food than I really am. “Thanks, Austin. I’ll . . . keep that in mind.”
But the truth is, his words are already lodged in my brain, like a tiny seed that’s growing roots. I can’t stop thinking about them. And the worst part is, I don’t know if I want to.
“Come on,” Austin says, breaking the silence, his voice lighter again. “Let me show you that spreadsheets aren’t the only thing worth focusing on today.”
I raise an eyebrow, my curiosity piqued. “He smirks. “How about one day after work, I pick you up and we go out for a drink? No spreadsheets allowed.”
I let out a reluctant laugh. “Is this your idea of a bribe?”
“It’s more like a reward,” he says with a wink. “For surviving another day with me.”
I roll my eyes, but despite myself, I’m smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”