Page 73 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

“Good.”

“But we can’t do it again.”

I looked at her with confusion clouding my thoughts. She liked it. She wanted it. But we couldn’t do it again? I was aware of a distinct and unfamiliar sensation. Discomfort. Her words were wrong.

But I wasn’t about to let her see how badly it stung to be rejected. Cash Bancroft did not get rejected.

I shrugged. “Fine.”

I saw a flash of disappointment. She’d expected more from me. A protest. An argument. I was good at those. I let her wait.

“We’re going to finish what you brought me here to do,” she continued. Her hand was shaking when she brought her cup to her lips. Good. I wanted her unsettled because I sure as fuck was.

“When we go home, we go back to normal. That’s what makes sense.” She paused. “For both of us.”

“Both of us,” I repeated.

“Melody is getting married in less than four weeks.” Her voice was careful now, measured in a way that told me she’d been sitting out here rehearsing this since she’d slipped out of bed. “She’s pregnant. She’s going to need me in a way she’s never needed me before, and I want to be there for every second of it.” She gestured vaguely between us. “This is fun. You know it is. But it’s also messy, and it complicates things in ways I can’t afford right now.”

I said nothing.

“I’ve spent the last few years making sure Melody has everything she needs,” Cleo said. “This is the part I actually wanted. The part I dreamed about. Her getting her person. Having her family.” She looked down at her hands in her lap. “I don’t want to be distracted from that.”

“And you,” I said. “Your dreams.”

She looked up.

“Not Melody’s,” I clarified. “Yours.”

She smiled. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Lurch.” She picked her coffee back up. “They’re safe and sound with me.”

Lurch.

I wasn’t Cash anymore. I wasn’t a man in her world. Not a friend. Not a lover. It was back to the nickname. The walls were up. I was on the outside.

I understood what it meant. It was over—or whatever version of over applied to something that had barely started.

I understood it. That didn’t mean I liked it.

I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and looked at the street below, where a man was opening the shutters of a flower stall. I let her words digest.

“I’ll book you on tomorrow’s flight,” I said. “First class.”

“Obviously,” she said.

“There are still a couple of appearances I need tonight. A lunch tomorrow before you go.”

“A few more hours of pretending to be in love with you.” She smiled over her coffee. “Grueling work, but I’ll manage.”

“I’m sure the suffering is immense.”

“Deeply.”

I stood. The bulge was long gone. That thing had retreated when it got rejected.

“We’ll make this the shortest fake engagement in Bancroft history,” I said. “I’ll make sure that goes on the record somewhere.”

She laughed. “I’ll want that in writing.”