Eighteen
Ring the Alarm
MIA
I’M HALF-ASLEEP, TANGLED in my duvet and Austin’s scent, when my phone buzzes aggressively on the nightstand. A glance at the screen makes me groan.
Mum.
Of course, it’s Mum.
Answering her calls on a Monday morning before coffee should be illegal.
“Morning, darling!” she chirps, way too cheery for the ungodly hour of 7 a.m. “I’ve had the most brilliant idea!”
I sit up, already suspicious. Mum’s ‘brilliant ideas’ have ranged from hosting Tupperware parties to attempting a goat yoga session that ended with a trip to A&E. “What kind of brilliant idea?”
“Oh, nothing too extravagant,” she coos innocently. “Just a small engagement party for you and Austin.”
My jaw drops. I’m pretty sure I just swallowed a fly. “Mum, you’re joking.”
“Absolutely not,” she declares, her voice brimming with pride. “I’ve already started planning. This Saturday. Perfect timing!”
“What?!” I choke. “Mum, no! We can’t—”
“Nonsense. It’s already in motion. The caterer is booked, and I’ve told half the village. It’s going to be lovely.”
“Half the—” My voice cracks, panic rising. “We haven’t even discussed an engagement party yet. Austin doesn’t even know about this!”
She huffs dramatically. “Well, you’re engaged, aren’t you? What’s there to discuss? Oh, and make sure he wears that sharp suit of his. The one he wore when we met him. The navy one, it brings out his eyes.”
Before I can protest further, she continues, “And, darling, do try to make yourself presentable. None of those . . . quirky dresses you insist on wearing. Something elegant. We want to make a good impression, after all.”
Quirky? I wouldn’t say my style is quirky. A nun has more quirk than me.
“Mum,” I say through gritted teeth, “you do realise this isn’t the royal wedding?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course, it’s not.” She pauses. “Though I did think about renting a marquee.”
My head falls into my hands. “Mum, please—”
“Oh, I’ve got to go. The florist is calling. Bye, darling!”
“The fl—”
The line goes dead.
I sit there in stunned silence, the phone still pressed to my ear.
What. Just. Happened.
“What’s wrong?” Austin’s gravelly voice pulls me out of my spiral. I glance over to see him leaning against the doorway. He must have gotten out of bed before I was rudely awakened. He is dressed already, and wearing that navy blue suit and burgundy tie. He looks like a sin incarnate.
“My mother,” I say, blinking at him. “She’s . . . throwing us an engagement party.”
His brows shoot up. “She is?”
“Apparently, it’s already planned by all accounts.” I reply, still dazed. “Saturday. Caterer, florist, the works.”
He smirks, crossing the room to sit beside me on the bed. “Sounds . . . fun?”
I glare at him. “It’s not funny. My mum’s idea of ‘fun’ is shoving us in front of a crowd of people we barely know while they ogle us like zoo animals.”
Austin chuckles, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “Relax, Jameson. It’ll be fine.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Easy for you to say. You’ll just have to stand there looking handsome. I’ll be the one fending off Auntie Celia and her ‘So, when are the babies coming?’ interrogation.”
His grin widens. “Babies, huh? Should I be worried?”
I grab a pillow and smack him with it. “Don’t start.”
He laughs, pinning the pillow between us. “Alright, alright. Tell me what you need me to do.”
I sigh, already feeling the weight of Mum’s meddling. “Just . . . show up, look sexy, and try not to make me regret this fake engagement any more than I already do.”
Austin’s expression softens, and he leans in, brushing his lips against mine. “For the record,” he murmurs, “I don’t regret it.”
My chest tightens at his words. “Mum told me not to wear a quirky dress. Should I be concerned?” I asked.
Austin pulls back with a teasing grin. “I think your quirkiness is fucking hot.”
I throw the pillow at him again, despite laughing at myself.
CHARLOTTE IS ALREADY WAITING for me when I arrive at the café, her sharp eyes scanning the menu like it personally offended her. She’s the picture of composed elegance in her tailored coat and heeled boots, her blonde hair swept up into some kind of effortlessly chic bun.
Meanwhile, I’ve got mismatched socks under my boots, and my hair is doing that “slept on it wrong” thing.
Perfect.
“Mia!” she exclaims, waving me over with a grin. “There you are. I was beginning to think you’d bailed.”
“On you?” I tease, sliding into the seat across from her. “Never.”
“Good, because I’ve got questions.” Her grin turns devilish as she sets down the menu. “And I’ve cleared my entire afternoon to interrogate you.”
“Fantastic,” I deadpan, flagging the waiter for a pot of tea. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Charlotte doesn’t even pretend to hold back. “So,” she begins, leaning forward, “what exactly is the plan with your fiancé now that you’re . . . you know . . . shagging like bunnies?”
I choke on absolutely nothing. “Charlotte!”
“What?” She shrugs, the picture of innocence. “I’m just saying, things have escalated. A lot. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
I am now kicking myself for texting her after our walk along the Thames.
“Oh, I’ve thought about it,” I mutter, staring down at the table. “And then I try not to think about it, because my brain goes into full-blown panic mode.”
Her brows lift. “Why panic? He’s clearly into you. And let’s face it, Mia, the man’s a snack. A fucking tasty one at that. If you don’t lock that down, someone else will.”
I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “It’s not about locking him down, Char. It’s about . . . everything else. The fake engagement, the lies, the fact that my mother is hosting a fucking party to celebrate something that isn’t even real.”
Charlotte’s lips twitch, like she’s trying not to laugh. “Ok, but . . . it’s kind of real now, isn’t it?”
I lift my head, glaring at her. “No, it’s not.”
“You’re literally wearing a ring,” she points out, gesturing at my hand.
“It’s a prop!” I hiss, shoving my hand under the table like it’s incriminating evidence.
“Is it, though?” she counters, her tone suspiciously smug. “Because last I checked, you and Austin were very much behaving like a couple.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m ready to be engaged!” I whisper-shout, glancing around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping. “We’ve only just . . . started whatever this is. I don’t even know what it is!”
Charlotte rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out. “Mia, the man adores you. He looks at you like you are the only woman he’s seen in his life. Do you really think he’s seeing other people? I don’t think he would risk it anyway, given this ‘arrangement’.”
I bite my lip, my chest tightening at the thought. No, I don’t think he is. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready for what this engagement might actually mean.
“And what if he thinks we are engaged now? It would be like skipping like a million dates.” I blurt, my voice rising slightly.
Charlotte freezes, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Wait, you haven’t talked about it?”
“No!” I cry, my heart pounding. “What if he assumes this is all real now? What if he’s secretly planning a wedding and I’m just . . . here, panicking over brunch?”
Charlotte bursts out laughing, completely unfazed by my existential crisis. “Oh, Mia. You’re such a drama queen.”
“I’m serious!” I hiss, my palms clammy.
“Ok, ok,” she says, still chuckling. “First of all, Austin isn’t the wedding-planning type. He’s more the ‘let’s wing it and see what happens’ type. Second, he’s not an idiot. He knows this whole engagement thing started as a ruse.”
“But what if he wants to make it real?” I whisper, the words tasting foreign and terrifying on my tongue.
Charlotte studies me for a moment, her teasing demeanor softening. “Then you talk to him, Mia. Honestly. Like an adult.”
“Ugh,” I groan, slumping back in my chair. “Why is that always the answer?”
“Because it works,” she says, smirking. “Look, you’re overthinking this. Just... tell him where you’re at. If he’s the guy you think he is, he’ll understand.”
I nod reluctantly, knowing she’s right but hating every second of it.
“And if he is planning a wedding,” she adds with a wink, “at least I’ll get to be a bridesmaid.”
I throw my napkin at her.
LATER THAT EVENING, BACK at the flat, I’m curled up on the couch with Austin, my legs tucked under me, a blanket draped across my lap.
The TV is on, but neither of us is really paying attention. He’s casually scrolling through his phone, every so often letting out a soft chuckle or tapping out a reply to a message.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting here, locked in a battle with my own thoughts.
Charlotte’s voice is still rattling around in my head, her pointed question echoing over and over: What’s your plan?
Plan? Ha! I don’t even know what I’m having for breakfast tomorrow, let alone how to navigate a fake engagement that’s turned into a very real, very confusing relationship.
I glance at Austin, completely at ease, his jaw slack as he scrolls. I swear, nothing rattles this man. It’s infuriating. How is it that I’m drowning in a sea of what-ifs while he’s . . . laughing at memes?
I need to say something.
I need to clear the air, to know where we stand before my overactive imagination runs wild and builds an entire life for us. Complete with a white picket fence and a golden retriever named Rufus.
I shift in my seat, the blanket rustling. As if sensing my internal turmoil, Austin looks up. His stupid, heart-melting smile is already in place, and just like that, the words die in my throat.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his brow furrowing slightly, that warm, steady gaze fixed on me like I’m the only thing that matters.
“Nothing,” I lie, forcing a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Just . . . thinking.”
He tilts his head, clearly unconvinced. “About?”
My chest tightens, my heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it always does when he looks at me like this. Like I’m something precious. I hesitate, the words caught somewhere between my brain and my mouth. Finally, I take a shaky breath and say it.
“Us.”
His expression softens instantly, his phone forgotten as he places it on the coffee table. He leans toward me, his forearm resting on his knee. Then, in a move so tender it makes my stomach flip, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“What about us?” he asks, his voice low, soothing.
I swallow hard, my palms suddenly clammy. “What happens next, Austin? With . . . all of this?” I gesture vaguely between us, hoping he’ll catch my meaning because I sure as hell don’t know how to articulate it.
He leans back against the couch, his expression thoughtful as he studies me. The silence stretches, and I resist the urge to fill it with nervous babble. Finally, he speaks.
“What do you want to happen, Mia?”
Mia. He only calls me that when he’s serious.
My stomach plummets. Why does he have to throw it back on me? My mind races, trying to string together some semblance of an answer.
“I don’t know,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. “I just . . . I don’t want to rush into anything. Not yet.”
Austin nods slowly, his face unreadable. For a moment, panic grips me. What if he doesn’t want to wait? What if he wants . . . more?
“Ok,” he says finally.
“Ok?” I echo, blinking at him. I’d braced myself for a debate, maybe even a little pushback, but this? This feels almost anticlimactic.
“Yeah,” he says simply. “We’ll take it slow. No pressure.”
Relief floods through me, loosening the knot in my chest. But at the same time, there’s this .
. . unsettling warmth that blooms in its place.
It’s confusing, this strange mix of gratitude and something dangerously close to longing.
But before I can fully relax, he shifts closer, a teasing glint in his eye.
“I mean, I’m not ready to get married just yet, either. So I guess we’ll just have to have a very long pretend engagement until we’re both ready.”
I gape at him, my mind struggling to process what he just said. “A long pretend engagement?”
He shrugs, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Sure. It’ll be fun. We can milk it for all it’s worth—free champagne, fancy dinners, maybe even a bridal expo or two if you’re feeling adventurous.”
I stare at him, torn between laughter and exasperation. “You’re ridiculous.”
Austin reaches for his phone again, but before he picks it up, he flashes me another one of those smiles. “You know you’re stuck with me, right? Slow or not, I’m not going anywhere. We’re good together.”
The corners of my mouth twitch despite myself. “Confident, aren’t you?”
He shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Confident or stupidly optimistic. Take your pick.”
“Both,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.
He laughs, the sound warm and infectious. “Fair enough.”
And just like that, the tension lifts. We settle back into our spots, the room filled with a comfortable silence. But even as I sip my tea and pretend to focus on the TV, my mind keeps circling back to his words.
We’ll take it slow.
No pressure.
We’re good together.
And if that means a long, fake engagement complete with free champagne, then maybe—just maybe—I can live with that.
For now.