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Why would Mark lie?

Fallon pulled her parka tighter as she stared at the hotel’s exit. A car pulled up. Someone waved. Seconds dragged past. A breath stuck in Alex’s throat. She opened her mouth, but no words or air came out.

“My friend’s here. Sorry, I wish we could chat longer.” Fallon tossed her bag over a shoulder and smiled kindly. “Have a happy anniversary, okay?”

Without looking back, she dashed through the doors to the car, her bun barely touched by Dublin’s drizzle.

A strong waft of fragrance, a spicy scent, prickled Alex’s nose…

The scent she had detected in bed…

On Mark.

No.

No, NO!A savage coldness ripped through Alex’s chest, plunging without mercy into her stomach. She began to tremble. The lobby melted into a wobbly blur of streaky lights and staring guests.

“Excuse me, miss? Are you all right?” A tourist with a Canadian flag pinned to her coat’s lapel smiled kindly.

“I-I…don’t know.” Alex shuffled past the woman, up the hallway leading to the elevators, and leaned precariously against the wall. Juggling the two parcels, her fingers jabbed at the phone screen quaking in her palm. The last photo she’d seen before receiving Lucy’s text—the fuzzy image of her and Mark pressed against the wall in the pub—lit up her screen. Her eyes poured over the image.

The back of Mark’s pink shirt was at a diagonal angle to the camera. His arms looped around her waist, and his face was hidden, lost in a kiss. A glimpse of her red dress peeked out from behind his body, but beyond that, only her arms, squeezing him tightly, were in view. Her fingers dug into his back, their embrace verging on desperate. The silver bracelet on her wrist caught the light.

Alex blinked. Something wasn’t right. Some parts of the night were still a fog, but Alex did remember that she hadn’t made out with Mark at the Stag’s Head, not once, not at all…and she didn’t own a silver bracelet…

The photo of Mark pressed up against the wall in lip lock—was with Fallon.