Page 34 of Pretend To Be Mine

I was happy to carry that weight. Honored to even. Dad had built something incredible, and I’d be damned if I let it crumble on my watch.

But fuck me, the weight was heavy.

And this whole thing with Elizabeth was supposed to make it lighter. That was the entire point. Shift the narrative, get people invested in the romance, and take the pressure off the shows themselves.

Instead, she’d become another complication.

No, that wasn’t fair. Elizabeth was trying. She was doing her best in an impossible situation. The problem was that she made me feel things I didn’t want to feel. My sexual appetite before Dad died was pretty ferocious. After his death, I didn’t have time to think about women or sex. I’d gone celibate. I couldn’t remember the last time I had sex.

That had to be why I was having such a visceral reaction to Elizabeth. It was the close proximity. And the boobs. Damn, the woman had a nice rack. She was making me think things I shouldn’t be thinking.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the small gasp she’d made when I’d touched her jaw. How badly I’d wanted to pull her closer and press all those soft curves against my body. I was half-tempted to tell her we needed her to model bikinis, but I just couldn’t think of a good enough excuse. Bikinis in the fall weren’t really a thing.

I cranked the treadmill higher. I was in an all-out sprint.

Yesterday I had to leave the studio before I did something monumentally stupid. When Sebastian sent me photos later of Elizabeth looking absolutely natural and gorgeous after I’d left, it had only twisted the knife deeper.

She could do it. She just couldn’t do it with me.

The treadmill beeped. Ten miles. I slammed the stop button and stood there panting, sweat dripping down my face, no closer to peace than when I’d started. I checked the time and headed for the shower.

Sunday dinner at Mom’s house was a Blackwell tradition that had survived even Dad’s death. Every Sunday at six, we were all expected at the family brownstone in the Upper East Side unless we were out of the country. No exceptions.

I arrived exactly on time to find Dash already there, sprawled on the couch in the living room with a beer.

“You look like hell,” he observed cheerfully.

“Thanks. You look like you.” I grabbed a beer from the bucket he’d brought and collapsed into an armchair.

“Long run?”

“Ten miles.”

“And you’re still wound tighter than a watch spring. Maybe try meditation next time.”

“Maybe try minding your own business.”

Sebastian breezed in moments later, looking infuriatingly relaxed in jeans and a cashmere sweater. “Brothers! I come bearing wine.” He held up two bottles. “Both overpriced and pretentious, just how Mom likes it.”

“She doesn’t like pretentious wine,” Briggs said, following him in with a bakery box. “She likes good wine. There’s a difference.”

“Spoken like a true snob.”

Mom appeared in the doorway to the dining room, silver hair pulled back in an elegant twist, wearing a simple black dress that was designer but meant to look basic. At sixty-five, our mother was still striking, with those same blue eyes Dash had inherited and a presence that commanded attention without demanding it.

She raised four boys with an iron fist but a gentle hand. She didn’t let us get away with shit—unless she was involved. Then she was the best co-conspirator.

“My boys,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite hide the sadness that still lingered a year after Dad’s death. “All here. Good. Dinner’s ready.”

We filed into the dining room, taking our usual seats at the massive table that could easily fit twenty. The five of us clustered at one end, leaving vast stretches of empty chairs. Back in the old days, on special occasions, those chairs were filled with Dad’s friends and their families.

Those families grew up, people passed away, and life moved on. And now those seats were empty, just like Dad’s at the head of the table.

Now it was just us.

Mom said grace, a tradition she’d maintained despite none of us being particularly religious. Then we dug into the spread. Roasted chicken, vegetables, potatoes, all prepared by Mom’s cook but served family-style, just like when we were kids.

“So,” Mom said, passing the green beans to Briggs. “How are the preparations coming?”