Chapter 2
LIZ
I've changed four times. Four times. It's still wrong, everything is wrong, and I'm running out of time.
Dean will be here in twenty minutes, and I can't breathe.
The navy dress, a.k.a. THE dress. The one Dean complimented at his cousin's wedding. I was reaching for champagne, and he said, "That color's perfect on you."
Because I am, at the very core, just a woman, I've worn it to every event since, hoping he'd say it again, but he never has.
Should I change? I should change. This is too obvious.
He'll know. He'll know I wore it because of what he said, and then he'll know I've been pathetic about him for years and—
Stop.
I yank the dress off the hanger. It's fine.
The dress is fine. The dress is perfect.
The dress shows too much. No, not enough.
Except, yes, it's exactly right, but wearing it feels like screaming "I LOVE YOU" in navy silk.
That's a problem because this is fake, and I need to remember that, and oh God, I can't do this.
My poor brain.
The ring catches some light as I zip the dress. His grandmother's ring. It's supposed to be for when he finds his forever, and I'm not his forever. I'm his best friend, playing pretend to save me from my sister's cruelty, and somehow that makes it worse.
Maybe I should just learn to deal with my sister better. Deal better with everyone in my life.
Ugh, how is this my life? It's as if the universe saw how in love I am with Dean and thought, "You know what, let's take it up a notch and turn him into a fake fiancé."
This is just one evening. One party. You can do this. Then, of course, there's the wedding day, the reception, and what else. You can do those, too.
Who am I kidding? I'm going to crack the second he touches me. I always do. I'm the worst liar on the planet, except when I'm with Dean. Then lying comes easy because we know each other's rhythms, we can finish each other's sentences, and we've been doing this dance for years.
But this isn't the same dance.
My phone pings.
Dean: On my way. 5 minutes.
Five minutes.
I look at myself in the mirror. The dress fits perfectly, wrapping at the waist. My hair finally cooperates, a perfect bob instead of going in every direction. Makeup looks natural. I look … good.
Do I look like someone who could be Dean Alexander's fiancée?
Yes.
Except I'm not, and I probably never will be.
The knock comes at 6:50 exactly.
I take a breath, open the door, and am probably about to die, with the way my lungs and heart stop working.
God, Dean cuts a gorgeous profile.
He's in the doorway, and my overactive brain cells malfunction.
White linen shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows because he hates long sleeves.
I stare at his forearms like they're new, like I haven't seen them a thousand times, except I've never let myself really look before, and now I can't stop looking.
Those forearms should be illegal. They have no right looking as sexy as they do.
Dark hair dusting tanned skin, the shift of muscle and veins when he moves his hand to grip the doorframe, the watch on his left wrist—
"Hey, Dean. Hi. Hello. Hola. Bonjour."
Something must have really shifted between us earlier at lunch because I've never felt this awkward and nervous around Dean. Never. And I'm plenty awkward.
His eyes sweep over me slowly, starting at my kitten heels, traveling up bare legs, lingering where the dress wraps across my waist, my chest, and finally reaching my face.
"You look beautiful."
I snort. "You're engaged to me. You're required to say that."
"I meant it before I was engaged to you." The side of his mouth lifts. "That dress. I remember that dress."
My core clenches, and I hope he can't sense it. God, how is it possible to get turned on by those words? Those aren't sexy, seductive words. He's just complimenting me.
I'm still trying to untangle my knots of emotions when he threads his fingers through mine. "Ready?"
I feel the jolt all the way to my toes. "Ready as I'll ever be."
Dean's just holding my hand. It shouldn't be a big deal, but that's all it takes to make me forget how to function like a normal person. And my normal is already pretty weird.
We pass other guests heading to the pavilion. They smile at us, and I try to smile back, try to look like a woman in love instead of a woman drowning in want.
"You okay, Liz?"
"Yeah. Just … everyone's watching."
"Good." He squeezes my hand lightly. "That's the point."
Right. The point.
But what happens when I can't tell the difference between performing and wanting anymore?
The pavilion glows ahead. Twinkle lights strung between white columns, tropical flowers everywhere, music drifting on the ocean breeze. It's beautiful. Romantic. Exactly the kind of setting where fake engagements feel dangerously real.
We walk in together, and conversations pause.
People turn. Smiles bloom across faces. Knowing glances pass between guests.
"Oh, look, the newly engaged couple."
"I heard he proposed in front of everyone."
"He gave her his grandmother's ring."
Ugh, I hate this kind of attention. Actually, any kind of attention. My skin prickles with awareness, with the weight of eyes on us, and Dean's hand tightens around mine like he knows. Because he does. He knows everything about me, except my real feelings for him.
"Liz! Dean!" Maura waves from a high-top table, cocktail in hand. Mom stands beside her, already three or four drinks deep if her flushed cheeks are any indication.
My stomach drops. Why Maura doesn't just allow herself to be happy at her own wedding and has to drag me every chance she gets, I have no idea.
"Showtime," Dean whispers against my ear, and the brush of his breath makes me shiver.
We navigate through clusters of guests. Every few steps, someone stops us—congratulations, when's the wedding, how did he propose, let me look at that ring—and we smile and lie, and I'm amazed at how good we are at this.
How good he is at this.
He touches me constantly. Hand on my waist when someone asks about the proposal. A random kiss to the temple. I never realized how touchy he could be. I mean, I've never seen him with his ex-girlfriends, so I don't really know how he acts as a lover.
I can't say I'm not liking it, though, especially when he plants a kiss on my bare shoulder, and my whole body stiffens, sparks light up my nerve endings, and a gush of wet heat pools in my lace underwear.
It will be soaked before this night is through.
Dean settles beside me, close enough that our thighs press together under the table.
There's plenty of room. The table isn't crowded. He could shift six inches to the right, and we'd have space. But no. Dean's thigh is solid and warm against mine, and I have to finish an entire glass of water because of how suddenly thirsty I am.
He doesn't move, but neither do I.
Appetizers arrive. Some kind of tropical salad with mango and avocado that probably tastes amazing but might as well be cardboard because Dean's hand lands on my knee under the table, and my fork clatters against the plate.
"You okay, Liz?"
"Fine. Just being my usual clumsy self."
When his thumb strokes my knee, I dig my feet into my shoes, abandoning all pretense of being casual about this.
I cannot focus on the food. Cannot focus on the conversation happening around us—Maura talking about tomorrow's itinerary, Mom asking about our honeymoon plans (we don't have any because we're not really getting married, Mom, keep up), Ted making some joke nobody finds funny. Except Ted.
All I can focus on is Dean's hand on my knee, the heat of his thigh against mine, the way his fingers trace absent patterns on my skin that make me want to crawl out of my chair … and onto his lap.
"Try this." Dean's fork appears in front of my mouth, some kind of seared scallop.
The fork slides into my mouth. I'm trying to focus on the flavor, but Dean's eyes are on my mouth, his hot gaze pinning me, and when I swallow, he tracks the movement of my throat.
Dinner continues in a haze of accumulated torture.
His arm draped across the back of my chair, fingers brushing my bare shoulder.
Leaning close to whisper comments that make me shiver—"Your sister's drunk," "Ted's checking out the bridesmaid," "Why are there fireball shots already?
" Tucking hair behind my ear when it falls forward, his knuckles grazing my cheek.
To anyone watching, we're adorable. Newly engaged and unable to keep our hands off each other.
To me, it's exquisite torture.
By the time dinner ends and the music shifts to something slow and romantic, I'm an absolute mess. I want this over with, but also not yet.
Dean leads me to the floor and pulls me close, one hand settling at my waist, the other clasping mine. I rest my free hand on his shoulder and feel muscle ripple beneath the linen.
We've danced before. Weddings, parties, that one time in college when we went swing dancing on a dare. But never like this. Never with his hand splayed possessively on my lower back, never with barely any space between us, never while everyone watches and thinks we're in love.
"Relax," he says.
"I can't."
"We're engaged. We're supposed to look like we can't keep our hands off each other."
That phrase echoes in my head. Can't keep our hands off each other. That's the problem. I can't. Don't want to. Would happily drown in touching him if it wouldn't ruin everything.
We sway. Barely moving. Just existing in this small space where the rest of the world fades. It's only us and the music, his hand burns through my dress, and my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest.
Dean's eyes drop to my mouth. "You know what would probably cement our story?"
"W-what?"
"A kiss. Not a peck. A real one."
"Here? With everyone watching?"
"No better place to rest their doubts."
"O-okay?"
Dean chuckles. "Liz, you should not look like you're headed to the guillotine."
"I don't look like that."