7.
Taina frowns at me from the edge of the mattress as I hold up a yellow sundress that I’m not sure will fit after the ten pounds I unintentionally lost courtesy of all my stress. It’s only been a day since I met with Anders, and I’m not leaving for his hometown until the end of the week, but I couldn’t wait to pack. And I wanted Mathew to see my suitcases and ease up on the stick he willingly has perpetually shoved up his ass.
I can add a belt, so I fold it and drop it into the oversized suitcase open on the pale wooden floors. Taina organized all my clothing while I was away, so I rifle through the drawers of the white dresser to find some shorts for the humid South Carolina spring.
With each item I pick and pack, Taina’s gaze burns hotter and hotter on my skin.
At first, I ignore her because the more I sort through my stuff, the more I realize Taina managed to salvage nearly everything I would have wanted.
The clothes, the charger cords, the books with my dad’s notes scribbled in the margins, the ratty throw blanket I used to fall asleep under that my mom hand sewed for me—she got it. Most of it. More than anyone else would have.
And yeah, some things didn’t make it. The little items. The ones I never pointed out, never shared the weight of. Like the sticky notes my dad used to leave all over my room, each one marked with a tiny smiley face— slips I eventually gathered up and tucked together beneath my jewelry box.
Or that mug with the chipped rim that only mattered because I spent all day worrying my mom would ground me for it, only for her to laugh at the way it made the clay look like it was bitten. Taina couldn’t have known, and I
didn’t give her a reason to ask.
She saved what she could.
When my cheeks start to burn, I sigh and face her. “What do you want
to say?”
“Oh, can I speak now?”
I look around at an invisible audience. “At what point did I say you couldn’t?”
“Every time I talk, you shut me down.”
“If that’s the case, pick a different topic of conversation.”
Taina groans and stomps her feet like she did whenever I told her she had to stop eating twenty Flintstones-vitamin gummies in one sitting. The memory fills me with a nostalgic warmth—something I assume mothers feel when they look at their children.
“I don’t see why you’re so against me going with you,” Taina starts for the fifth time. “I love South Carolina. I want to go to the beach to tan, eat melting sorbets, and read till I fall asleep with sand in my hair.”
“I’m going for work,” I tell her. Again. “And you’re going because you’re unnecessarily worried about me. I told you. I. Am. Fine.”
“The more you say it, the more I don’t believe it,” she says.
“The more you don’t believe it, the more I wish I had sent you off to a
distant aunt.”
“You don’t even know this guy.”
I go back to picking out clothes. “I don’t know any of the people I work with.” Though strangely, it feels like I do know Anders. At least, I know him a lot more than any other client, since he’s the first person to request me after spending time together.
“Yeah, but you’re staying with him. Shouldn’t he put you up in a hotel?”
“I looked up his place.” I gather three pairs of jean shorts and shove them in the suitcase. “There is plenty of space, and it’s by the beach. It’ll be nice.” I give her a look. “And you’ve already vetted him.”
“Anders Kennedy—graduated from Belhaven University, phone number 843-555-4458, email anders kennedy reads at gmail dot com, no priors, a speeding ticket when he was seventeen that fell off his record.
Listed as a donor to the American Library Association. Single.”
I chuckle. “I’m surprised you don’t know his social.”
“Two-four-seven-two—”
“Taina!”
“What?” She crosses her arms. “I’m nothing if not thorough. And, okay, fine, I am worried about you. You’re going through a lot, and I know you hate that I know you are, and you wish you could quietly deal with your problems and make it so I think you’re happy and healthy and financially stable because you know my anxiety gives me nightmares. So what? Is it a crime to care about your sister now? Lock me up.”
I let out half a sigh and a laugh, then approach Taina and place my hands on her shoulders. “No, my dearest, prettiest, funniest, nosiest little sister, it is not. I love you, so look at me and listen when I say I am fine.”
Taina and I rarely have any miscommunications, because we overcommunicate. We leave no room not to tell the other how we feel. We always want the other to be happy. Even when we’re mad, we have a rule to let it out, say we love each other before bed, no matter how hard it is to get out. So dealing with all her worry feels less overwhelming and more of a comfort. No matter how bad life sucks, I have a sister who loves me unconditionally. “I feel better than I have in a while. Trust me. And your anxiety is only going to make mine flare up. We can’t both be worried all the time.”
Taina rolls her eyes, and looks to the side, but not anywhere near me.
“If I can’t go, then you have to share your location with me. And text me updates. And eat good, big meals. And lock your door at night—I’m talking chair under the handle, knife by the bedside. And sleep with Anders if the opportunity arises.”
There’s always a burst of love and pain whenever Taina’s protective side makes an appearance. What a gift it is to be loved so deeply you can feel each panicked beat of someone else’s heart pounding for you. And what an embarrassingly crushing feeling to know that—despite living most of my life trying to get Taina to view me as someone resourceful, dependable, the person you come to with any and all problems, the woman with countless bandages at the ready, pockets full of pep talks, a constant, unbreakable, figure—she still sees me as someone to protect for all I try to hide.
I pinch her cheek. “First you didn’t want me to stay with him, but now you want me to sleep with him.”
“You think I didn’t see his photo?” She whistles. “I’m anxious, but I’m only a woman. No better than a man, really.”
I laugh, then shove her to the side. “Just help me close this suitcase.”
During my two-hour flight, Anders and I exchanged over a hundred messages. If I’m going to show up as the girlfriend he’s allegedly been dating for four months, we need to be completely on the same page— timeline, backstory, favorite sandwich.
I’ve started jotting down Anders-related facts in the journal Taina gave me to help keep track of the weddings I’ve crashed. It’s now doing double
duty as a relationship study guide. I figure I should know at least the basics in case someone brings it up or I need to casually drop a detail without inventing a whole new life for him.
And yes, if we’ve been together that long, you’d think I would’ve been at the wedding two weeks ago. Reasonable assumption. Anders has fielded these suspicions by telling his family that he “wasn’t ready for everyone to meet me yet” and wanted to be sure things were serious. Which is very noble and romantic—now that I’ve been called in to fake it.
Favorite color: Green Favorite movie: Anything with Will Smith Favorite team: Eagles Broke his arm trying to climb a tree to save a bird nest from falling
when he was 11
A night person
Likes “anything but country” music
Has traveled to seven countries No allergies Wanted to be an astronaut growing up, realized he needed to be good
at math, immediately moved on 30 years old No mention of parents, only Aunt Bethany Has a best friend since childhood, Lucas, who was the one who told him to climb the tree to save the nest
When I land, exhaustion adds weight to my bones, and I drag myself from the plane out the winding path of bars and restaurants to baggage claim. It’s a little after 3:00 p.m., but I barely slept the night before, after spending most of the evening reconvincing Taina not to come with me.
The more anxious she got, the more worried I got, and our late night has added five-pound dumbbells to my eyelids as I try to stay awake while I wait for the conveyor belt to bring my borrowed luggage.
I blink, and I’m not sure how many minutes have passed. One moment, there was silence as I and the other passengers stood around, and the next, the belt was moving and packed with suitcases.
It’s easy to spot the lime-green case hidden under an oversized black one. I drop my matching carry-on on the tiled floor and move toward it.
Nobody comes to retrieve the stray bag, so I try to shove it off, but it’s too heavy. I suck my teeth and shove my palms on the rough canvas, and it budges, but not enough. I keep trying, but the belt moves it whenever I almost get it off, and I lose momentum.
Frustration sprints through my blood, and I brace my foot against it, finally managing to knock it over. I reach for the handle of my own bag and get it halfway off when someone pushes it back onto the belt.
A man dressed in a full camo tracksuit shoves himself directly in front of me. “The hell you get off kicking my luggage?”
I let out a sigh as another body shoves itself between us. So close, I jerk back and get a full view of Anders, in pale-washed jeans and a white shirt rolled at the sleeves, leaning over and gripping my luggage handle with one hand and the black luggage with his other.
The veins in his arms and the muscles in his biceps constrict as he lifts them both off the belt and puts them on their wheels.
Anders turns and faces me. “Any other luggage?”
His unexpected appearance steals my ability to speak, so I shake my head. Camo points his finger over Anders’s shoulder at me. “Hey, are you listening to me?”
Anders half turns, a polite smile on his face. “Your suitcase is right there.”
“Yeah, I can see; I’m not blind. I’m asking why the hell she kicked it.”
With the way his reddened eyes are bulging out of his head, you’d think I kicked him instead. I might. If his voice gets any louder. I wouldn’t beat him in a fight; he’s even taller than Anders, but I would do some damage and run to safety after.
“It was in the way,” Anders goes on, less polite though a smile still pulls at his lips as he turns around to face the man. “And now you are too.
We’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mind ending the scene you’re trying to make.”
We. The word shouldn’t stir the teenager-worthy crush my weak heart decided to develop over Anders. Next thing you know, I’ll be lying in bed, kicking my feet up, writing our names together in tiny bubble hearts.
“Listen, asshole—”
Anders places his hand on the man’s shoulder and says something I can’t hear from where I stand. Whatever it is makes the man frown, half puzzled, half shocked, but completely silenced.
Anders turns back to me with a warm smile as he reaches for my suitcase again. “Let’s go,” he says, walking toward the carry-on I dropped and slinging it on his shoulder. My bones forget how to function for a few moments before I hurry after him.
“What did you say to him?” I ask as I try to grab my carry-on from him.
“A secret.” He winks at me. Did you charm him or threaten him or both?
He grabs my hand I’m aiming toward my carry-on and guides it toward the side of my jeans. The warmth of his large palm presses against my hand as he places it inside my pocket before pulling his away.
“You know I was wrong, though. I did kick his luggage.”
“He should have moved it,” he says.
“I should have been patient,” I say.
“And he should have been understanding.”
A laugh rumbles through me. “I think we both know the truth here.”
“Maybe,” he says as the automatic doors slide open for us, “but I’m team Lucinda, right or wrong.”
Heat slides down my body. I look sidelong at him while we walk to the airport garage.
“I’m thirty minutes early,” I say as we cross the roadway, turn signals blinking, cars honking, people chatting, and guards yelling at people not to park for more than literally five seconds at a time. “How early did you get here?”
“I was tracking your flight, so I knew you’d be landing.”
“Of course you were,” I mutter.
He shoots out his arm, and my chest bumps into it. Better his body than the metal doors I nearly walked into. When I right myself, we walk to the elevator, and he presses the top button. He whistles softly as we wait.
A bundle of voices joins us in one wave of loud noise just as the elevator doors open. Funnily, it’s a bachelorette party. One girl has a BRIDE banner draped across her white minidress, and all the other girls, in pink miniskirts, stumble over each other as one—the maid of honor, probably—leads the charge.
“All right, ladies,” she says as Anders walks in first. “There will be no stopping, no breaks, straight to the bar, and we will not sleep until tomorrow.”
They all cheer, and I swear they don’t even see me. Like the most beautiful NFL football team made of perfectly curled hair and six-inch stilettoes, they charge into the elevator. I’m tackled by their bodies and herded in like a sheep.
Anders looks up from dropping my carry-on on my suitcase and reaches out to me as I try to avoid being trampled.
He catches me and pulls me into his chest. The girls shuffle in. The scent of vanilla and tequila engulfs us as the doors shut, and everyone squishes against each other like sardines in a can.
His arms snake around my waist. I grip the fabric of his shirt as we’re pressed up against the back wall of the tiny box.
“Guys, there are other people here,” the girl right beside us says.
“Who wants shots?” someone else asks.
The brunette beside us gives me an apologetic smile as a body shoves me so close to Anders that there is scientifically no way we can be any closer without merging into one person.
My blood hums. I look up and catch Anders’s jaw clenching. I try to move so I’m not making him too uncomfortable.
My hands slide up his chest, and his pulse quickens beneath my palm.
I move my legs, but Anders must have the same thought because he adjusts himself, too, and I end up with his thigh between both of mine.
Heat, blazing and fast, flares between my thighs. The shock of it makes a needy whimper bundle at the base of my throat. He hardens against me and I freeze. The way my heartbeat pounds in my ears and the shot of need throbbing at my crotch steals my breath. The slightest movement will wrench the moan from my lips.
Anders clears his throat. I press my forehead against his chest and hold my breath.
An insane, irrational, idiotic brain cell screams at me to move. To learn how it would feel to free myself of the tension simmering under my skin.
To place just the slightest pressure where my currently pulsing center begs for it.
I start counting backward from ten. The lack of free space is the reason for my nipples tightening and straining against the fabric of my shirt, and simultaneously, the only reason Anders can’t see my body’s reaction to him, to us.
A bing echoes around us. The girls shuffle out. As soon as cool air swirls behind me, I push myself off Anders and whirl around so fast my vision blurs.
I’m out of the elevator in half a second, crossing arms against my chest, trying to hide my nipples. Anders moves past me, pulling my luggage behind him.
“I’m just up here,” he says tightly as he leads. Veins peek through the skin of his hand as he grips my suitcase.
“Right.”
My stomach is doing Olympic-worthy gymnastics while I continue to count backward and forward, trying to lower my blood pressure to an acceptable rate. We pause at what I think is a Jeep, but the back is a bit bigger than the Wranglers I’ve seen before.
He pops open the trunk and lifts up my bag with an ease that undoes whatever minuscule cooling-off progress I managed to achieve. If I were connected to a monitor in the hospital, the staff would assume I was having a stroke.
I swallow and keep my legs far apart to prevent the slightest bit of friction.
Anders walks toward the passenger side and opens the door. I can’t hold back my groan. When I reach him, he smiles. I grab his hand, remove it from the handle, shut the door, and then open it again.
My finger points accusingly at him. “I told you not to do this.”
He chuckles a low rumble that brings a victorious blush to my cheeks.
“I never said I wouldn’t.”
I’ll keep that in mind is what he said.
Anders moves behind me, sliding his hand down the small of my back.
I feel every one of his fingers burning there, leaving a perfect trace of his
palm as he guides me into the vehicle.
I nearly throw myself in to get away.
He shuts the door, and I have to fight the urge to lock him out. Enough that my fingers lie on top of the button by the time he lets himself in the driver’s side.
“So,” he says as he starts the engine, “how tired are you?”
Eager to focus on anything other than the shock of want coursing through me, I answer, “Not at all.”
“Okay,” he says, “then if you’re up for it, want to meet my family?”
My eyes widen, and the heat within me cools into sheets of icy nerves.
“Right now?”
He casts an apologetic look my way before turning to reverse out of the spot. “My very adorable, very nosy preteen cousin overheard me talking about picking you up from the airport. A fact she kept to herself for all of thirty seconds before my sister knew, then my aunt, and so they are all at my aunt’s place, dying to meet you.”
I am tired. And I didn’t think I’d have to be on so quickly after touching down. I barely have had time to memorize all of Anders’s fun facts. I definitely don’t know anything too personal if anyone asks.
“We don’t have to,” Anders says at my silence.
I shake my head. “Yes, we do. It’s the whole reason I’m here.” And being overpaid for. Frankly, if Anders asked me to lick the floor of a gym locker room, I’d do so. “I just haven’t picked out a disguise, or a name, or a backstory.”
“The red wig and crooked nose.” Anders cocks his head to the side as he pulls up the memory of me beneath a bush. “It’s smart, but do you need
one for this?”
“I always do.”
“We’re in an entirely different state, and you’ll be here a while, so it’ll be a hassle to keep it up. I’d rather remember actual things about you than made-up ones. Just be Lucinda.”
I open my mouth to tell him he shouldn’t remember things about me.
That I’ll be a fleeting memory in his life, and three months from now, maybe even sooner, we won’t see each other again. But some mangled emotions I can’t patch up enough to fully understand stop me.
My body turns to face him as he drives. My gaze scans his profile, sharp and defined, aside from his eyes. Tiny creases mark the skin around them, a symbol of years and years of laughter.
Usually, the people I work with want nothing to do with me once the job is done—understandably so. Maybe I’m so used to it that it’s a reflex to reject the thought of someone doing something different. Would it be so bad not to be a complete stranger to Anders?
“Okay,” I say automatically. “Let’s go.”
His hand reaches over and squeezes my knee.
Uh-oh, my heart warns again. Are you sure about this?
