Chapter 8 Bearded Dragon #2
I find myself watching her, memorizing the way she moves, the focused frown as she debates earrings, the way she hums under her breath—some pop song I don’t recognize.
It feels real. Easy. Like we’ve done this a hundred times. The thought is a sucker punch to the ribs.
Four days. That’s all this is. The clean break looms like a guillotine.
We walk to the cocktail reception together. Her hand finds mine, fingers lacing through mine naturally. It’s part of the act, I tell myself. Selling the couple vibe. But it feels like more. Her hand is small and warm in mine, a perfect fit.
The ballroom is already buzzing. Soft jazz, clinking glasses, the low murmur of wealthy people networking.
Natalie glows in pale pink, surrounded by her bridesmaids.
Blake is with the rest of the groomsmen, his charm dialed up to eleven.
And there—weaving through the crowd like a sleek eel in white silk—is Scarlett. Her smile is sharp enough to cut glass. Her eyes lock onto Jane and me for a fraction of a second too long.
And then I see her. Standing near the bar, scanning the crowd with the calm efficiency of a hound assessing a territory. Impeccable cream pantsuit. Hair in a severe, elegant knot. Minimal jewelry. She looks like she was genetically engineered in a Prescott Family lab. Candidate Clone.
“Ten o’clock at the bar,” I murmur to Jane, nodding subtly towards the bar. “The one who looks like she audits parties for fun.”
Jane follows my gaze. A slow smile spreads across her face. “Oh, she’s perfect. Textbook.”
“Remember. Follow my lead. And for goodness' sake, try to look a little less… heterosexual.” She squeezes my hand.
Before I can process that, she’s pulling me forward.
We glide through the guests. Jane’s posture shifts, becoming straighter, more assertive. The ‘devastatingly competent’ part of her persona clicks into place.
We reach the bar just as Candidate Clone turns, her cool, assessing gaze landing on us.
"Weston Prescott."
“That’s me,” I confirm.
“Eleanor mentioned you’d be here. I’m Veronica Vance.” She extends a perfectly manicured hand. Her handshake is firm, brief, and efficient. Like signing a document. Her eyes flick to Jane. “And you are?”
“Jane Cooper,” Jane says, stepping slightly in front of me. Not aggressively, but possessively. Her smile is dazzling, utterly fake. “West’s partner.” She emphasizes ‘partner’ like it’s a legal term.
Veronica’s eyebrow arches a fraction. “Partner? Eleanor didn’t mention—”
“Oh, Eleanor may have her suspicions,” Jane cuts in smoothly, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. She leans in slightly. “It’s all still a bit… delicate, you understand? Given the circumstances.”
She throws a meaningful glance my way, her expression a masterpiece of sympathetic concern.
Veronica’s gaze sharpens, shifting from professional assessment to active curiosity. “Circumstances?”
Jane sighs dramatically. “West has been so brave. Truly. Navigating everything with such grace.”
She places a comforting hand on my arm. I try to look ‘brave’ and ‘graceful’. Probably just look constipated.
Veronica frowns. “I’m afraid I’m not following. Eleanor simply said West was attending solo and might appreciate meeting someone with shared professional interests.”
Jane lets out a soft, disbelieving chuckle. “Oh, bless Eleanor. Always trying to fix things, isn’t she? Even when they’re… well… unfixable in the traditional sense.”
She lowers her voice further, drawing Veronica in. “Look, Veronica—I’ll be blunt. West isn’t looking for a wife. Or a girlfriend. Or… well, any kind of romantic entanglement with a woman.”
Veronica blinks. Once. Twice. Processing. “I… see.”
I die a little inside.
“Do you?” Jane asks gently, her eyes wide with faux-earnestness. “Because it’s not a choice, you know? It’s just… who he is. Deep down.” She pats my arm again. “He’s finally accepted it. Embraced his truth. We all have.”
Veronica’s gaze snaps to me. I see the rapid recalculation happening behind her cool eyes. My height. My build. My profession. The pieces clicking into a new, unexpected configuration. “So… you and Jane… you’re not…?”
“Jane is my rock,” I say, finding my voice. It sounds surprisingly steady.
Jane’s fingers dig into my arm in silent approval.
“She’s my support system. My… beard, if we’re using the colloquial term.” The word feels absurd leaving my mouth. Jane beams at me like I just scored the Cup-winning goal.
Veronica stares. “Your… beard.”
“Exactly.” Jane chirps, radiating supportive pride. “It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement. I get the stability, the companionship, the fabulous benefits package—”
She winks.
“—and West gets the societal cover he needs while he explores his authentic self. Quietly, of course. Discreetly. The Prescott name, you understand. Legacy and all that.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “It’s all very modern. Very progressive.”
Veronica looks like her internal spreadsheet just crashed. “But… Eleanor said nothing about—”
“Eleanor is in denial,” Jane whispers conspiratorially. “Sweet woman, but terribly old-fashioned. She thinks if she throws enough suitable women at West, he’ll suddenly discover an appreciation for the fairer sex he’s never felt before.”
She shakes her head sadly. “You’re the third woman he’s met in the last thirty-six hours. It’s heartbreaking, really. The hope. The constant unnecessary disappointment.”
Veronica’s gaze flicks between us, landing on our joined hands. Jane squeezes mine tightly. I try to project an aura of quiet, dignified homosexuality. It mostly involves not looking at Jane’s cleavage in that dress.
“I… had no idea,” Veronica says finally. Her voice has lost some of its professional polish. She looks genuinely discomfited.
“Most people don’t,” Jane says sympathetically. “West is very private. Very careful. But seeing you here, so lovely and accomplished… well, I couldn’t let Eleanor set you up for heartache. Or waste your valuable time. You seem far too intelligent for that.”
Jane offers a warm, understanding smile. “Better to know the truth upfront, right?”
Veronica nods slowly, still processing the nuclear bomb Jane just dropped on her expectations. “Right. Yes. Of course. Discretion is… paramount.”
She clears her throat, straightening her already impeccable suit jacket. “Well. Thank you for your candor, Jane. West.”
Her nod to me is stiff, tinged with a newfound awkwardness.
“I should… mingle.” Veronica turns and walks away with the brisk, efficient stride of someone escaping a biohazard zone.
Jane watches her go, then turns to me, her eyes sparkling with unrestrained glee. “Did you see her face? Priceless! I think I broke her corporate lawyer brain.”
I stare at her and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. The sheer audacity. The perfect, chaotic execution. The way she stepped in front of me, a tiny warrior shielding me from the Prescott legacy juggernaut. Not with violence, but with a lie so outrageous it was brilliant.
“You,” I say slowly, “are terrifying.”
She grins, unrepentant. “Told you I’d bring my A-game.”
She plucks two champagne flutes from a passing waiter’s tray and hands me one. “To successful sabotage. And Kirkland Signature protection.”
I clink my glass against hers, the sound sharp and bright in the humid air. “To the beard.”
We sip our champagne. Jane scans the crowd, her expression shifting back to strategic assessment. “Scarlett’s watching us. Looks like she swallowed a lemon. Blake’s trying not to stare. Mission accomplished on multiple fronts.”
I follow her gaze. Scarlett’s icy glare is fixed on us.
Blake’s attention, however, is lingering on Jane—specifically, on the way the green silk hugs her hips.
I step closer, my hand sliding to the small of her back. Proprietary. Unmistakable.
His eyes flick to mine. I hold his gaze until he looks away.
Good.
“Easy, tiger, lose the scowl.” she murmurs, a slow smile playing on her lips. “We’re selling a committed partnership, remember? Me and my secretly fabulous boyfriend.”
“Blake was looking at you,” I say, my voice tight.
“He looks at everything in a skirt,” she dismisses, but a faint blush creeps up her neck. “Ignore him. Focus on the win. Veronica Vance is officially neutralized. Your mother’s matchmaking campaign is in shambles. We should celebrate.”
The way she says ‘celebrate’ sends a bolt of heat straight to my groin.
The ballroom, the crowd, Blake… it all fades. All I see is her. The bold red of her lips. The challenge in her eyes. The fierce, loyal chaos that just dismantled my mother’s plans to protect me.
I drain my champagne in one go. The bubbles burn pleasantly. “Casita. Now.”
Her smile turns wicked. “Thought you’d never ask.”
The walk back is a blur of heat and anticipation. We don’t speak. The tension crackles between us, thick and electric. I fumble with the key card. The door clicks open. We step inside. The lock engages behind us with a final, heavy thud.
Silence. The air in the casita is cool, scented faintly with the coconut oil from Jane’s skin and the sandalwood cologne she stole. Moonlight streams through the open terrace doors, painting silver streaks on the tile floor.
Jane turns to face me, leaning back against the door. Her eyes are huge in the dim light, dark pools reflecting the hunger I know is blazing in mine. The playful saboteur is gone. In her place is the woman who moaned my name against the counter. Who trusted me with her body. Her first time.
“So,” she whispers. “Celebration.”
It’s not a question. It’s an invitation. A challenge.
The carefully constructed control I’ve maintained– the discipline, the distance, the rigid compartmentalization—shatters once again. It doesn’t crack or crumble. It explodes.
My hands find her waist, hauling her against me. My mouth crashes down on hers.
It’s not gentle. Not patient. It’s claiming. Devouring.
A release of everything I’ve been holding back—the possessiveness, the protectiveness, the sheer, overwhelming want.