Chapter 13
Thirty-five minutes later, Wes and I are walking into the rose garden, me with a pair of gardening gloves (a last-minute inspiration by Natalie) and Wes with his iPad.
He’s wearing the sweater-vest he wore for our first appointment in DC with jeans and a T-shirt since it’s important he looks casual too.
He looks good.
I definitely notice that.
I’m relieved to see there are a number of visitors admiring the roses since they’ve recently started blooming for the season. I catch in my peripheral vision that a few guests covertly snap photos of us with their phones, but I pretend not to see.
For several minutes, Wes and I go tfhrough our routine of fictionally inventorying the roses. I try to take it seriously, inspecting each rose plant and sharing its condition with Wes, who takes notes as we go through.
I actually do discover one of the plants is in bad health, something Jake needs to know.
“Is it time?” Wes asks in a low voice after a while.
“I don’t know. It seems kind of soon.”
“Why is it soon? Now is as good as any.”
“What’s the hurry?” We’re having this conversation softly enough that no one around us can hear.
“The hurry is I’d like to get this show on the road.”
“You think I don’t? But if we rush through it, all this will be wasted.”
His lip curls up in a faint snarl.
“You don’t have to look so disgusted. You agreed to this plan just like I did.”
“I know I did.”
“Then what’s your problem?” His clear reluctance has momentarily distracted me from anything else. Because it hurts. That he so wants to be done with this thing. That he’s acting like I’m somehow responsible for getting him into it.
When he agreed to The Plan even before me.
“I don’t have a problem. I just want to get the romantic shit over with.”
I gasp, genuinely outraged by his choice of words. “And you think I’m excited to get all snuggly with you?”
“I never said that.”
“Whatever. We can’t have this stupid argument right now.”
“I’m not the one who wanted the argument.”
“Yes, you damn well are.” I snap out the words in all earnestness. Then realize that it will work for the last word of our snippy argument.
So I shake my head and turn away from him, taking several strides before I stop, like I’m pretending to inspect another rose plant but mostly just want to get away from him.
It feels real at the moment. The man can be infuriating.
A minute passes before I sense motion behind me. I feel him. Smell him. Hear his footsteps and then his voice as he says huskily, “Ella, don’t be mad.”
I turn around and don’t have to pretend anything because something in his expression dumbfounds me.
It might be real.
In my dreams, it could be real.
That deep, yearning ardor.
I gasp and cover my mouth as my eyes lower to the jeweler’s box in his hand.
He makes a nervous sidelong move before he lowers himself onto one knee and opens the box to display the pretty diamond solitaire that belonged to his mom.
None of us wanted to waste the money on a new ring for a fake engagement.
“Ella Blake,” he says. “Will you marry me and be snippy with me for the rest of our lives?”
The words surprise me so much I make a loud sound, half laughter and half sob. Then I nod passionately as I try to find my voice again to get the word yes said.
I have no idea where the thrill of joy and affection comes from since I know—I know, I know—this isn’t real.
But it feels real for some reason, and my heart is responding to it.
If Wes ever decided to propose to me for real, he might say exactly those words. His face might look exactly like that.
I make another silly sound and drag him back up to his feet. Then I throw myself into his arms and he hugs me tight, whirling me around like he’s too filled with joy to stay still.
When we finally pull apart, he takes my hand and slips on the ring.
Then he leans over and kisses me—not deeply but earnestly.
We didn’t practice the kiss. Natalie said it would be fine without it. But the kiss feels right.
Really right.
People start applauding from all over the garden, and I’m not faking my startled confusion as I look around.
I half forgot we were doing this for show.
There are a lot of people gathered around, all grinning and holding up their phones to film the moment.
Both Wes and I laugh sheepishly, and he wraps an arm around me as he guides me out of the garden.
If this were real, we’d want to get away from public exposure, so that gives us a perfect exit route.
We wave and smile at the people who congratulate us as we pass. I’m flushed hot and probably as red as some of the roses, but that will make it look real.
I can only assume we appear overcome with love and joy as we make our way out of the rose garden and then down the path toward the cottages.
Everything inside me is in an uproar.
This is fake. Nothing but fake. A show we’re putting on for the cameras.
So why is my heart hammering like this? And why are my hands trembling? And why do I love the look of the diamond on my hand and the feel of Wes’s arm around me?
Why do I wish the whole farce was real?