Chapter 26
Olivia
I’m woken up by the sunlight streaming through Reed’s huge windows. Instinctively, I reach over to where he was sleeping, but the bed next to me is empty. He must have already taken off for work.
I glance over at the clock on his nightstand, then sigh, flopping back against the pillows. I slept later than I meant to. I woke up to get some water late last night, and we ended up having sex again, wearing each other out. It’s a miracle he managed to get up on time.
I slowly get out of bed and wander into the kitchen. There’s a savory, warm smell wafting down the hallway; Reed must have made breakfast for both of us.
When I get to the kitchen, I blink and rub my eyes. There are multiple plates on the counter, piled high with fresh-cooked eggs and bacon, fresh, sliced fruit, and a stack of pancakes. I can smell coffee—and sure enough, the pot is full.
There’s a sticky note next to one of the plates. It reads:
Made sure to order this for you before I left. Thought you might need it to replenish your strength. - Reed.
I grin, feeling sore and sated and happy. I dig into the food eagerly—it’s just what I needed to wake myself up.
As I eat, I pull out my phone to text Reed. The message is half-formed in my mind—something cute and flirty. Before I can finish typing it, though, I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the screen.
I’m falling for him, hard and fast. It’s dangerous, what I’m doing—leaning into my feelings. Playing with fire.
I need to try to get a handle on things. I can’t get used to this; there’s an expiration date on everything that’s between us, and if I want to be able to move on when our arrangement is over, I need to be careful now.
So instead of the funny, suggestive message I was about to send him, I backtrack and type out a simple one. He responds right away.
ME: Thank you for the food!
REED: Of course. It’s no trouble.
I frown at the screen for a few moments, wondering if he can tell that something’s off. Am I being weird?
No. Of course not. It’s just a text.
I need to get a grip.
I finish the rest of my breakfast, then wander into my own bedroom, stripping off Reed’s sweats and t-shirt. I hop into the shower, keeping the water lukewarm in an attempt to clear my head. By the time I’ve stepped out, I’m already feeling much better.
I dry off and dress myself in my own clothes, resolving to do the laundry and return everything I’ve stolen from Reed’s closet. If I’m going to maintain a healthy distance between us, I’m going to have to stop wearing his clothes so much. I might even wear them more than my own.
Which, now that I think about it, is a pretty good indicator that I’m getting too attached.
As I’m drying my hair, my phone starts vibrating on my dresser. I glance at the screen to check the caller ID. It’s my mom.
I turn off the dryer and pick up. “Hello?”
“Hi, sweetie,” my mother says warmly. “How are you today? I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”
“I’m good! Now’s a good time to talk, don’t worry.”
“Where’s Reed?” There’s a bright, teasing curiosity in her voice, and I grimace a little.
“He’s at work. It’s the middle of the day.”
“Oh, of course, of course. How is he? How are both of you? You know, it’s been a minute since we had you two over for dinner.”
“Yeah,” I say, pressing my cheek against the phone to pin it to my shoulder. “We’re both good, don’t worry. Uh, we’ve just been really busy with wedding stuff.”
“You have to come over soon,” she urges. “Your father and I would love to see you.”
“Of course. First chance we get.” I head out into the hallway, padding toward the living room. I may be wearing my own clothes now, but that doesn’t mean I have to put on shoes. “You sound good, Mom. How have you been feeling?”
“Oh,” she says, clearly pleased. She does sound much better than she did a few weeks ago—her voice is stronger, and she seems happy. “I’ve been feeling wonderful over the past couple of days. It’s nice to be home.”
Thanks to a better regimen of medications and some good physical therapy, my mother’s doctors decided that she could continue her treatment from home rather than staying in the center, which I know has been good for both her and my father.
The center has assigned her a home care nurse, who makes things much easier for both of my parents. Now, thanks to the center’s staff, my father doesn’t have to be a full-time caretaker—and we don’t have to worry as much about emergencies.
“I bet it is,” I say. “I’m really happy you’ve been feeling better, Mom. How’s Dad?”
“He’s been tackling the garden,” she says cheerfully. “He’s planting peonies, apparently. They’re my favorites. I can see him through the window right now.”
I chat with my mom for a little bit about her garden, my father, and her plans for the next few weeks. She continues to gently tease me about Reed, and by the end of the conversation, I’ve promised her that I’ll ask him if we can do dinner at their house this weekend.
Unfortunately, I have to hang up only half an hour after our conversation started. Usually, when I go this long without calling my mom, we’ll talk for a couple of hours, minimum. But today, I have an appointment to keep—even though I’d rather not.
I have to meet up with Cecily again, this time to shop for a wedding dress.
It’s all for publicity, of course. All part of the ruse.
It’s the last thing I want to do. As I get ready to leave, the last remnants of this morning’s bliss bleed away, and by the time the elevator doors are closing on me, I’m in a bit of a foul mood.
This is the last thing I want to be doing, and the worst possible way to do it.
If I was really going dress shopping, I would want my friends to be there. I can’t imagine picking out a wedding dress without Riley’s input. And I’d want my mom there, too; I always pictured it that way.
But I’m not really going dress shopping. This isn’t really my wedding. This isn’t my life. I’m stuck in a fantasy, where I only get Reed Eastwood in the dark halls of his home and the shadowy confines of our bedrooms. The second it’s all over, he’ll be gone.
Before, I would’ve been okay with just helping him out and taking the money. It could’ve been enough. Now, though, I’ve seen him—really seen him. I’ve seen how caring and observant he is. How much he would do for his friends. How sweet and funny he can be.
I want more than a temporary relationship and PR-approved appearances. I even want more than secret hookups.
Unfortunately, anything more is against the rules.
I meet Cecily at a fashion designer’s office in midtown. I’ve heard the designer’s name somewhere before—she’s another pseudo-celebrity. I think she designed a gown for some actress at last year’s Met Gala, or something like that.
I don’t look her up; I decide I’d rather not know. The last thing I need is to get intimidated and act nervous around Cecily.
When I arrive, the receptionist guides me straight to the fitting rooms, where Cecily is waiting for me with her arms and legs folded. She doesn’t greet me, or even pretend that she’s happy to see me. Instead, she just gestures to a rack of long, white dresses on the opposite side of the room.
“Well, let’s get a move on,” she says stiffly. “I don’t have all day. Start at the end and work your way down.”
I breathe out quietly through my nose, trying to convince myself that it’s better this way.
At least it won’t be dragged out. It’s become clear to me over the past few weeks that Cecily doesn’t really like me, and I’m not exactly her biggest fan, either.
The less time we have to spend together, the better.
This is all about appearances. I need to post a few shots of wedding dresses to Instagram. With any luck, someone will see Cecily and I leaving the boutique together. That’s all that matters today.
So I grit my teeth and grab the first dress on the rack, then duck behind the curtain to get changed.
The first dress is an off-the-shoulder number.
It has intricate designs embroidered into the bodice in gold thread, and the golden motif carries into the skirt, which is hemmed in metallic fabric.
I think it looks beautiful, but the moment I step out from behind the curtain, Cecily is already frowning and shaking her head.
“Too non-traditional,” she says, her nose in the air.
“How come?” I glance over my shoulder at one of the mirrors that surrounds me, shifting my posture so that the skirt sways. “I think it looks nice.”
“It may ‘look nice,’” Cecily says archly, “but it won’t work. You can’t wear a wedding dress that isn’t pure white. It may give the tabloids fodder for speculation.”
I do my best to hide my frown, turning my gaze on the ground. “I see.”
“Try another,” she instructs, examining her manicured nails.
It quickly becomes apparent to me that my opinions don’t matter to Cecily in the slightest. I’d already had a hunch, but it’s getting harder and harder to hide my disappointment as I try on more dresses.
Cecily approves of an uncomfortable, stiff gown with a train so long that it drags on the ground behind me—even though I hate it. I trip over it three times on my way out of the fitting room, but she doesn’t care about that.
She also disapproves of pretty much everything I like. Any dress that is too modern or slim gets immediately tossed aside. She doesn’t like anything that takes stylistic risks, or strays too far from the classic wedding dress. Everything I like ends up in the reject pile, much to my dismay.
It’s not real, I keep telling myself. None of this matters. You’re never going to wear the damn thing, anyway. Just keep your mouth shut and get through this.
If I stand my ground too firmly, I know I’ll get in a fight with Cecily, and that’s the last thing I need right now. There’s a stilted, formal politeness between the two of us that I need to keep up.