Chapter 37 Rosie
There’s less than three days left of being married to Boone, two hours until our staged public blowout, and a week until our trip to Canada. And yet I already feel like I’m running out of time with him.
Which is ridiculous since we had our talk. He wants me to meet his mother. He wants to date me when this is over.
Our divorce isn’t the end, it’s the beginning.
I lean against the bathroom doorway in our New York City apartment, wearing nothing but the silk robe I threw on after round two with him this morning.
Boone is standing at the sink, razor in hand, focused on the mirror as he shaves the sharp jawline I’ve kissed and nipped at too many times to count now.
Every time that we’re together, it feels like we’re making up for lost time. Maybe it’s because we both know this thing has an expiration date or maybe it’s because we silently regret avoiding our feelings for so long.
Last night, we barely slept. The moment I walked in from work he was waiting for me, desperate to make up for the time that we’ll soon be spending apart. Desperate to avoid all the hard things we know we should be saying.
Yes, I agreed to go to Canada with him next weekend—a demand that should’ve been harder to say yes to than it was. But even with that trip ahead, I can’t shake the feeling that something big is ending between us.
Whether it’s the legal marriage that brought us together in the first place or the private moments that have turned this arrangement into something far more real, there’s been something extraordinary about these last three months.
Something that’s fundamentally changed who I am, and how I exist in the world.
And tonight, when we walk into that restaurant and put on our biggest, most important performance yet, it's the start of all that we've quietly built unraveling.
Boone glances over his shoulder, his brown eyes locking on mine. “Hey babe. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I nod quickly, even though my chest feels like it’s shrinking with each second that ticks by.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” One of the many lies I’ve told him over the past twenty-four hours.
I’m not worried about our future.
I’m not disappointed by how this is ending.
I’m confident we’ll make it.
I like having a plan, and this feels like I’m drowning in uncertainty. Meanwhile, Boone seems fine.
He sets down the razor, pats his freshly shaven face dry with a towel, and turns fully toward me.
I love the scruff he usually keeps, the way it feels against the soft skin on my breasts and thighs, but now, with his jaw smooth and sharp, he looks different. Too put together and perfect.
Like everything else between us is changing in ways that I’m not ready for.
Our PR team gave us strict instructions to keep it casual today. Boone’s wearing one of his long-sleeved, maroon colored Mayhem henleys, a nod to the hockey obsessed narrative they’re pushing, paired with dark-washed jeans.
He looks like the perfect all-American athlete—handsome, grounded, untouchable and completely devoted to his fans.
Meanwhile, I chose a lavender colored sweater dress, the color he once told me was his favorite on me. Because as much as I want to pretend that I’m all business tonight, I couldn’t resist giving into this one last request from him.
He steps closer, his hands finding mine, his touch warm and grounding. “This is the start, not the end, Rosie. Remember that while we’re pretending tonight, okay?”
I nod again, but my eyes dart away from his. Holding his gaze right now feels impossible, like I’m teetering on the edge of falling apart. And when I’m this close to breaking, I do what I’ve always done/ I fall back on the plan, the script, and my professional training.
“Okay, let’s go over it one more time,” I say, straightening my posture. My tone shifts into that lawyer cadence I know so well, the one that keeps me in control.
Boone watches me carefully, searching my face for cracks. I’m sure he can tell the subtle shift in my voice means I’m shutting down. Closing in on my emotions until I can process them later when it’s safe and I’m alone.
I barrel forward, clinging to the logistics of our plan like a lifeline.
“We step out of the cab and go straight into the fight so that it looks like we were arguing in the car. Loud enough for anyone nearby to catch it. We have the photographer stationed outside to snap a few candid photos and a videographer. Don't look at them. We can’t make it look obvious that we know they’re there. ”
He nods, but his hands tighten around mine. I wish he’d let go. I wish he’d give me space to think, to process, to come to terms with the fact that this version of us is ending.
But he hasn’t done that for the last twenty-four hours. He hasn’t let any distance open up between us despite my attempts. He held me all night. He made promises I don’t know whether he can keep, or I should let myself believe.
And while he’s been steady and certain, my defense mechanisms have been screaming at me to look out! Every old insecurity clawing its way to the surface, urging me to brace for impact. To prepare for the crash landing I’ve learned to expect when things are going a little too well with a guy.
“Then we’ll fight on the sidewalk for a minute,” I continue, forcing my voice to stay even. “Once we’re inside the restaurant, we’ll keep it going just long enough to make it believable. Then I’ll storm out, and we’ll leave separately. It’s clean, simple, dramatic enough to make headlines.”
Boone’s grip softens, his thumbs brushing over my knuckles. “And after that?”
I hesitate, my throat tightening. “After that…” My voice falters, but I pull it together before continuing. “After that, we move forward. We stick to the plan.”
His lips tilt downward like he wants to argue, but instead, he nods. “Okay, Rosie. We keep to the plan.”
I try to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes. Because no matter how flawless the plan is, no matter how good we are at pretending when the cameras are rolling, the truth is that tonight will break something between us.
And I’m terrified it’ll be the one thing that I can’t afford to lose.
“You’ve got your bag packed, so you’ll be set to call Penn and crash at his place tonight.
Remember, we have to make this believable, or the judge will figure out we faked the whole marriage just to fix your reputation and win the case.
It’s too late for him to overturn anything, but we can’t afford a public scandal that says you fake married your lawyer’s sister for clout.
And if my father thinks there's something real between us...” I trail off because my promotion is also still on the line.
I don’t know what my dad would do if he found out that I was actually in love with Boone. Because that’s what this is… love.
I’ve never felt it before, but I’m certain of it now.
“Mhm,” he hums, his fingers sliding from my wrists to my hips. They curl possessively, digging in just enough to make me shiver as he pulls me flush against his front.
“Boone, I’m serious. We need to focus.”
“I know,” he says, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “I’m just having a hard time imagining not living with you for a whole week until we're in Canada together.”
My head finds his chest as I let out a small sigh. His hands stay firm on my hips, grounding me, but then one moves, sliding up to tip my chin until I’m looking straight into his eyes.
His lips meet mine in a kiss that feels like reassurance and regret all at once. It’s tender and unhurried.
His eyes flick to the clock on my bedroom wall, then back to me. “We’ve got time.”
“Boone—”
He doesn’t let me finish, guiding me backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed. I fall onto the mattress, and his hands are already at the hem of my dress, shoving it up around my waist.
“We’ve got time, baby.”
My protests fade as his hands skim across my thighs, and my fingers tangle in his hair, soft from the shampoo and conditioner that we now share just like everything else.
Boone started using mine weeks ago, claiming he never gave a damn about that kind of thing before, but now he loves catching traces of my rose scent when he skates as the wind blows through his locks.
It was one of the most romantic things a guy had ever said to me.
“I like that you think of me while you're out on the ice,” I’d said. And he'd responded with, "I didn't need the shampoo for that, you're always on my mind."
Swoon.
He moves lower, nipping at my lace panties before taking a long, deliberate inhale.
“I’m taking these with me.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, but it dies in my throat as he hooks his fingers in the waistband and slowly peels them off, tucking the fabric into his back pocket like some kind of trophy.
Then, with one smooth motion, he settles between my legs.
“Mine,” he murmurs, slipping a finger inside my pussy and pumping languidly.
“Yours,” I whisper back, the word as serious as a vow as my body tightens around him.
I prop myself up on my elbows, watching him like I can commit every moment of this to my memory. Boone adds a second finger, coaxing it inside and stretching me before he reaches for his wedding band and slides it off his finger.
My breath catches as he drags the ring through my pussy, coating it before rubbing the cool metal reverently against my clit and then slipping it back in place on his hand.
“Going to jerk off tonight with your panties on my face and this ring under my nose since we can't be together,” he says, his voice darker.
“No, you won’t,” I laugh, even as heat blooms across my skin.
“I promise you I will.” His grin falters, replaced by something that’s raw and conflicted. “Fuck, Rosie, I don’t want to do this.”
Our gazes collide, the sincerity of his words catching me off guard. I feel the same way, but I know it’s not something we can say out loud. We don’t have a choice. We have to do this.
Before I can respond, his hand moves lower, adding a third finger as his palm presses down on my clit and rubs.