Page 61 of A Match Made in Error

“I saw a cup in the bathroom.”

A few minutes later, we’re on the floor between the bed and the window, the glass nicked from the bathroom sink balanced between us. He flicks a coin with practiced ease, and it clinks off the rim and skitters away.

“Rusty,” I tease, flipping mine. It drops cleanly inside.

He groans. “Unbelievable.”

For a few minutes, it’s just that. Coins. Misses. Trash talk. Familiar rhythm. The world shrinks back down to something manageable.

Eventually, he crawls into the bed and sprawls onto his back, asking me to conjure a hologram with a lazy flick of his own fingers, as if miming the exact action I have to do to complete such a request. The Knight’s University jousting team bursts to life on the wall. The sounds of lances splintering and crowds roaring echo in our bungalow.

I curl into the pillows beside him, a distance and nearness that has always defined our relationship. Far enough to breathe, close enough to feel connected.

Not lovers.

Not performers.

Just us.

Today hadn’t gone as planned. I internally snort. No. Nothing has gone to plan since the day Fate matched us. But if anything, this afternoon reassures me. He doesn’t see me as anything more than this. I need to put my emerging feelings away before they ruin everything.

Riven laughs at something stupid, and it settles something the simulation dislodged within me. He makes me feel safe. A little heartbroken, but safe.

I suppose this was the risk of faked intimacy with a best friend. If you have stakes in the game, you get everything except the part you want most.

Chapter Twenty-Two

POPPY

“It’s weird that we’re invited to a formal brunch,” Riven says, tucking his hands into his shorts. They’re so sinfully well-worn that it should be illegal. “It’s been an every-man-for-himself meal every other day we’ve been here.”

Riven has excellent pattern recognition, something I learned about a year ago when our linen napkins at the Foxhole started going missing and he noticed that the same shady regular was there each time one disappeared. Long story short, I bailed Riven out of jail that night with my tip money, but we did get the napkins back. All of that to say, I trust his suspicion. I’m prone to think a brunch invite is simply that, but if he has half a mind to be suspicious, I trust him.

“What’s the worst thing they throw at us?” We’ve been forced to display intimacy, display our literal hearts for all to see, and fight beasts in the dark. Whatever it is, it won’t rattle me. I swear it.

“Psychological torture. Or dance lessons. I’m hoping for torture,” Riven replies flatly. He holds a hand out to me, helping me step over the same fallen log they haven’t cleared in the days we’ve been here. “But I promise, if it breathes, bleeds, or overtalks at lunch, I will handle it.”

I snort. “Thanks.”

“Anything for you,” he replies, which he means sincerely, but somehow, my mind takes it as more. A shiver rolls down my spine as I try not to think of the implications.

Thankfully, the beach club comes into view, serving as a distraction. Tables set with white linen atop polished wood floors await us inside, and sunlight flashing off crystal glasses makes it feel like nothing in the world could possibly go wrong here. Riven tenses ever so slightly. I know what he’s thinking. It’s quiet here…too quiet.

From a distance, it looks idyllic. Breezy curtains tied back with gold cords. Long buffet tables draped in pale linens. Champagne already sweating in flutes. Musicians tucked beneath gauzy awnings.

Too pristine.

Too prepared.

Something is off, and as we step closer, I notice it.

There are twice as many tables as there should be.

Small, round, intimate. Each was dressed in white linen so crisp it could cut. Each set includes delicate porcelain, polished silver, and exactly two chairs.

No more. No less.

Couples slow as they approach, murmurs rippling through the gathering like a current. No one says it out loud, but we’re all counting.