Chapter 7
CAROLINE
It all comes pouring out. I tell Miles about working for my father back in Seattle, starting Found Family with Adrian, and how Dad had thrown his weight behind our little charity from the very beginning.
I don’t go into details about his substantial annual donations, focusing instead on the basics Miles needs to know before stepping into a room with my father in it.
It all seems a bit over his head, but I think Miles gets the gist: this fundraiser is important to me, Adrian, my dad… and I owe it to my father to fall in line right now.
Which brings us to how I got wrapped up in a scheme to pretend Fletcher and I were still together—even after I’d found all those texts, confirming his flagrant cheating.
“So, that shitweasel didn’t bother to cover his tracks?” Miles works his jaw for a second, like he’s trying not to grind his teeth as he mulls over what I just told him.
“I guess?” I shrug, trying to brush it off, though I know I shouldn’t.
“Or he figured he didn’t need to, maybe.
” It still stings. Fletcher isn’t a man lacking in intelligence; it hadn’t been a careless oversight but a choice.
He’d been uncaring. Callous. I catch myself shrinking into my seat and consciously sit straighter.
I don’t want to dwell on it or let Fletcher get to me—let him ruin my night with Miles.
“And your parents know all this. About Fletcher cheating and shit.”
“Yes.”
He looks gobsmacked. “And they still wanted you to go along with this thing? Pretend to be with your lying fuckwit ex for show?” When I don’t argue, he lets out a disappointed-sounding sigh. “Shit, that’s brutal.”
“Well, it was mainly my dad,” I say quietly, as if that makes it any better.
Mom had objected to the arrangement at first, but Dad had gotten his way in the end—as he always does.
His skill in debate, a politician’s bread and butter, wins him just as many private arguments as public ones.
Mom’s developed a resigned kind of acceptance over the years; it’s easier to let him have his way than make a fuss.
If I’m honest, maybe I’ve done the same thing.
“The breakup came at a bad time for the campaign,” I explain, trying to justify it. “Dad needs us in his corner right now. All hands on deck, right? Even if it means putting up with some”—I search for the right words—“uncomfortable circumstances.”
Miles doesn’t look convinced.
“Anyway, I think that’s why I kind of… snapped.
At the gallery. I know that sounds dramatic.
But hearing Fletcher go on and on about all this time we needed to spend cozying up together to appease the press…
” I trail off, gazing down at the gold brocade clutch in my lap.
“It was too much. It had gone so far past uncomfortable for me. Honestly, it felt like torture.” With tentative hope, I look up. “And then you were—”
“I was there,” he says, watching me carefully. “Like, I was conveniently nearby.”
“Yes.” When I realize how that sounds, my eyes fly wide. “I mean, no! You were there, but that makes it seem like I would have roped in anyone within a twenty-foot radius.”
He meets my gaze in the dark, smirking slightly. “Is that not what you’re saying?”
“No! Of course not!”
He dips his head like he isn’t sure whether to be amused or what. “You sure?”
“Look,” I say, dropping my shoulders. “You were nice to me.” Self-consciousness swelling in my chest, I throw a quick glance toward our driver, wondering how much he’s overhearing.
“At the gym. I know we only talked for a few minutes, but we seemed to get along, right? And you told that weird guy off, explaining exactly why he was being a human nightmare. It was enough that I figured you probably weren’t gonna turn out to be a human nightmare. ”
“Probably not a human nightmare,” he echoes, almost chuckling. “Should I put that on my resume, or—?”
“Miles! Dang it! You know what I mean.”
He laughs. “Hold up. Did you just say dang it?”
“Yeah. So?”
He tilts his head, the orange glow from a streetlight passing over the crinkled corners of his eyes. “That’s adorably wholesome.”
I fail to suppress an eye roll. “But you get what I mean, right? You were— You felt… safe. Like a safe bet.”
“Okay,” he says carefully, like something clicks into place. “Good. Safe is… good.”
“It wasn’t only because you were there.” Unable to maintain eye contact with that admission hanging between us, I sit back in my seat, training my gaze out the window.
“That said, I’m sure anyone within a twenty-foot radius would have been a better option than Fletcher.
It’s apparently a pretty low bar.” I huff out a breath. “Guess I really know how to pick ’em.”
“Caroline,” he says, waiting until I turn to meet his eyes. “I barely know that dick, but from what I saw and what you told me? It’s time to raise the fucking bar.”
I smile, still feeling a little uncertain.
“And, uh, I’m more of a high-jump guy, myself.” He tilts his head. “Maybe pole vault, if I’m feeling fancy.”
I laugh. “Well, this party is gonna be pretty fancy. Are you saying you’re gonna… pole vault it?”
“Okay,” he says with a lopsided grin, “that metaphor might have gotten away from me a bit.”
“I liked it.” Almost in wonder, I study Miles.
There’s something fascinating about the way he puts me at ease.
After Fletcher, being with a man who doesn’t keep me guessing is almost foreign.
But it also feels a lot like relief. I’ve only sensed this kind of easy honesty from one man before, and he’s ninety-two and loves crossword puzzles.
“Look, I know we basically just met,” Miles says.
“But I can definitely handle this fake boyfriend thing tonight. Hell, I look the part, right?” He throws his hands out at his sides.
“I’m wearing my fancy pants and everything.
Perfect for, uh, pole vaulting or whatever.
” Laughing through the last words, he shrugs, then drops his voice lower.
“I’m just talkin’ outta my ass here, but, point is, I’m up for this.
So c’mon.” He holds out his pinkie. “Trust me.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
A pinkie promise? Seriously?
His brows shoot up. “What? You’ve never made a pinkie promise before?”
I scoff. “Of course I have. But I’m twenty-eight years old, Miles.”
“And I’m almost thirty, Caroline,” he teases, pinkie still hanging. “Your point? What, you too good for pinkie promises?”
“Fine.” My shoulders sag as I hook my pinkie to his. “Deal. I’ll trust you.” Then my voice softens to something more tentative. “But there’s one more thing we need to discuss.”
“What?” He lets his hand fall back to his lap, and I can’t help but wish he hadn’t let go.
“We might need to act… affectionate. Tonight. At the event.”
That gets his attention.
Warmth flushes my face and neck and I’m grateful for the darkness in the back seat.
“Like, touch each other, you mean?” He almost winces, like he regrets how those words came out.
“Yeah, I mean, we’re posing as a couple. It’ll be expected.”
“Right. For the cameras?” He looks nervous.
“Exactly. Like, small stuff. Holding hands. That kind of thing. And… never mind. I’m not gonna ask you to—” I cut myself off, breaking eye contact. “The press can just be a bit pushy about getting a good photo and—”
“Hold up. You saying we might have to kiss?” He swallows, the movement caught in another swath of passing orange light from outside.
“Just for the cameras,” I stress. “But we don’t have to—”
“Right.”
“If that makes you uncomfortable, I completely understand.”
“No, it’s—” He shakes his head, then clears his throat.
“Because we can figure something out if they—”
“Caroline.”
The low tone in his voice cuts through my spiraling, and I press my lips together to stem the flow of words.
“Let’s take it as it comes, okay?” Slowly, he takes my fingers between his own and gives them a squeeze. His hands are warm and a little rough, and he strokes his thumb over my skin. “Trust me, remember?”
The inexplicable thing is: I do. I do trust him.
“You’re saying we should wing it?” My eyes flick from our joined hands to his face. “Are you sure we shouldn’t…”
He shifts to interlace his fingers with mine. The movement is slow. Careful. As if he’s testing the waters.
“… practice?” I finish the question in barely a whisper, then bite my lip.
Suddenly, all I want to do is bite his.
God, what am I thinking?
“Well, how’s this?” He squeezes my fingers and his gaze settles on my mouth. Reaching out, he tugs my lower lip out from between my teeth with his thumb and I have to remind myself to breathe.
The car pulls to a stop, jarring us from the moment. Miles drops his hand and, like smoke suddenly clearing, whatever was materializing between us evaporates.
Trying to shake it off, I glance out the window before returning my attention to him and wetting my lips. “That was…”—I swallow—“good. A good start, I mean.”
A slow grin unfurls across Miles’ features as he opens the car door. “Alright, fancy girl. I think we’re on.”