Page 98 of Pretend To Be Mine

The car pulled up to our hotel before I could respond. The doorman opened the door.

We rode the elevator in silence. I kept her hand in mine, but neither of us spoke.

The suite door clicked shut behind us, and suddenly we were alone again. Truly alone, without the threat of interruption or the need to perform for anyone.

I should keep my distance but dammit, I needed her. I grabbed her and kissed her. When she enthusiastically kissed me back, I led her to the massive bed and finished what we started at the manor.

32

ELIZABETH

Iwoke to the sound of water running in the bathroom. Adrian was in the shower. The London morning was gray and dreary but absolutely beautiful. I listened to the rain pattering gently against the glass. The whole experience felt surreal.

Last night felt like a dream. The manor house, the dancing, the way Adrian had looked at me. The way he touched me, kissed me, and made love to me like it meant something.

Nothing about this feels fake anymore.

I wanted to tell him, but I just couldn’t bring myself to say the words. I was not that brave. That felt like cutting my chest open and waiting to see if he would save me.

My own self-doubt was way too loud for me to allow myself to be vulnerable.

I kept wondering if I misread everything. What if last night was just excellent sex fueled by adrenaline and proximity?

My phone rang, cutting off my spiral. I grabbed it from the nightstand, saw Mom on the screen, and felt a flutter of something that might have been hope. Or dread.

It was always like that with my mother.

Maybe she’d seen the press coverage and wanted to congratulate me. I certainly hadn’t told my parents about my engagement. They didn’t know it was fake. I wasn’t sure they even cared. Maybe she wanted to tell me she was proud and she’d been wrong about fashion being a waste of time.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Elizabeth Marie Laramie.” Her voice was cold, clipped. Never a good sign when she used my full name. I considered just ending the call. I could tell her it was a bad connection. I was on another continent after all.

“Good morning to you, too,” I muttered.

I looked at my screen. It was just after eleven in the morning, which meant it was the butt crack of dawn back home. Of course, my mother would be up.

“I just got off the phone with your Aunt Carol.”

My stomach sank. Aunt Carol, gossip queen. The woman that heard gossip before anyone else and made it her personal mission to tell as many people as possible within the first hour.

“And?” I prompted.

“She sent me a video, Elizabeth.” The disgust oozed from her tone. Even thousands of miles away I could hear her disappointment.

“What video?” I asked.

“From that fashion show you were at last night. In London.”

“Sebastian’s show, yes. It was incredible.”

“It was pornographic.” The word came out with all the venom of a preacher delivering the Sunday morning sermon to a congregation of sinners.

“Mom, no.”

“Elizabeth, there were women on that runway wearing practically nothing. I could see their—their—” She couldn’t even say it. “Everything was on display. Nipples, Elizabeth. The entire internet can see nipples.”

I closed my eyes, counted to three. If I laughed, she would just get angrier. But seriously, the internet was nipples all the way down. Plus, Mom saw her own every day. I didn’t quite understand what the problem was. If she didn’t want to see the offending body parts, she could have just shut the damn thing off.