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No, there’s no faking that melancholy, even if she’s bitingly sarcastic. I slide an arm along the back of the sofa before I can overthink and lean in. She catches her breath as I clink my glass against hers for the second time.
“To the best goddamned fake engagement ever,” I say. “At least for the next six months.”
The smile returns to her eyes first, then her mouth.
“To the best mistake I’ll ever make,” she echoes.
7
SWEET RUMORS (JUNIPER)
It’s weird having money.
Like, actual money I can spend to unscrew my life.
The computer whining doesn’t send a cold sweat down my spine anymore.
My stomach doesn’t knot up when I look around the store and see everything in terrible need of updating.
First things first, though.
I bring the check to the bank. The clerk looks at me like she’s seen a unicorn—what normal girl like me cashes a check that big?—but it’s signed and addressed to me, so into the account it goes.
Then I start buying.
First, a laptop. No more relying on a hunk of junk PC that’s probably been around since I learned to count. This is a sleek, modern little machine I can cart around anywhere, whether I’m at home or pulling late nights working on spreadsheets.
I don’t have much of a life beyond work and sleeping.
And now, apparently, lying for Dexter Rory, too.
I scowl, remembering how we celebrated the craziest decision of my life over expensive champagne, before I get back to assessing the mixers in the kitchen. Out of all the appliances, they should be first on deck for an upgrade since they’re used the most.
Mixers and ovens and pans and a new microwave to replace the clunky old thing with a broken timer we’ve been managing with since Nana left.
Oh, and new recipes!
Nana’s lemon biscotti cheesecake is a must. I’m thinking of branching out into new territory myself. Trying something a little less homely and more high-class. Especially if we’re going to be keeping fancy, high-end properties stocked with sweets.
Some cute, colorful macarons would do the trick. Maybe even some matchamisu or dark chocolate crème for folks who don’t like blowing up their glucose scores.
Rich people like Dexter.
I pause what I’m doing to wipe my forehead.
…you know it’s bad when I’m starting to care what desserts he might like. If there’s a cake that man would eat without being under torture, I want to know what it is.
But I need to get a grip.
Before I start thinking we’re doing anything except an elaborate ruse.
You wouldn’t be engaged to him if he was the last man alive.
Also, he doesn’t need me to put in too much effort. He’s given me a script to follow and agreed to give me fair warning for any appearances.
On paper, it should be easy-peasy.
It’s just, the thought of watching him consume something from the Sugar Bowl without triggering his gag reflex feels oddly appealing. Some nice light matchamisu might really hit the spot.
