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She gnaws on her bottom lip.
“It’s—”
“It will work.”
There’s a glimmer of hope in her eyes, but it wanes.
“I can’t do it. You’re… you. And I’m me.”
And then she turns to the diner.
“Please.” The word whips out. “Please, Marci.”
She stops, turns to face me, and folds her arms.
“What did you call me?”
“Marci.”
She glances up and down the street. There are more people around. It’s Main Street, for fuck’s sake. Maybe discussing thisinsidewould’ve been a better option.
I wait for her verdict, jaw clenching and releasing.
“Get on your knees.”
“What?” I ask.
“I want you to get on your knees. Here. Right now,” she says, her lush lips turning upward at the corners.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“Fine. Then in the immortal words of Simon Cowell, ‘it’s a no from me.’”
I drop to my knees in front of her, and the back of my neck heats. I sense Mrs. Peddleson staring from across the street, and there are others. So many others.
My gaze fixes on Marci’s face. Her lips part on an inhale.
“Please, Marci,” I say. “Fake marry me.”
Twelve
MARCI
I hatethat my heart skips a beat whenever the bell above the door tinkles.
And I hate that I agreed to Jesse’s stupid plan. Or not so stupid plan. Utterly deranged plan. But I have to admit, the thought of him coming by more often, while odious, gives me a sense of comfort, simply because it will keep my attacker away.
“Can I get a burger to go?”
The question comes from a dude I don’t recognize. He’s got ginger hair, is short, and his smile is more of a snarl.
“Sure,” I say. “You want fries with that?”
“No.”
Polite.
“Grant, can I get a burger to go?”
