Page 44 of The Bad Boy's Fake Wife

Whenyou’rehappyandin love, even the way the sun rises and sets feels different. The golden hues seem warmer and the sky is more vibrant, as if the world itself is reflecting the joy in your heart. You begin to see colors differently—like the golden glow of sunrise feeling richer, the deep blues of twilight more enchanting. Every experience takes on a new depth, as if the world itself has become more alive. I don’t know how else to explain it.

And when you’re sad and in love, it’s a different kind of depression that you don’t even notice until you’re out of it. When I saw Jonathan with Jessica the first time, I didn’t know anything except the hurt that I felt. And I held onto that hurt.

Now that Jonathan and I have gotten closer after he saved me, things are really starting to look up for me. Except there’s one problem with being happy: I lose my inspiration to write.

I don’t know why anger and sadness fuel my writing so much, but when I’m happy, I feel too sappy to string words together properly. I glare at my laptop screen, the blinking cursor taunting me with its relentless rhythm.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan, eyes still on the screen, willing it to type, but of course nothing happens. Unfortunately, I have to do the typing myself.

“What’s going on?” Jonathan asks as he walks into the living room. He hands me a mug filled with hot cocoa, and I accept it.

“You.” I glare at him.

“Me?” he asks, seemingly confused.

I nod. “I’m so ridiculously happy when you’re around that it’s hindering my progress! I can’t be happy and write at the same time. Why can’t you make me mad or sad?”

That makes him chuckle. “You want me to make you mad or sad?”

I nod, happy that he understands exactly what I’m talking about.

“I only have two chapters to finish, and I seriously need you to do this for me. The ending of the book means just as much as the start or the middle,” I explain. “So please, I’m begging you to make me cry or rage.”

Jonathan starts laughing. “You’re joking, Emma. I don’t want to make you sad. How can I when you mean everything to me?”

My heart skips at his words, but I fold my arms across my chest and give him a hard stare.

“Just think of something, anything, to make me cry,” I say. “Or something that would make me angry.”

“But you look angry right now,” Jonathan points out.

I roll my eyes. “I’m annoyed, not angry. There’s a bit of a difference between the two emotions.”

Jonathan stays quiet for a while. “What if we watch a movie?”

“A movie,” I repeat.

Jonathan nods. “A really sad movie, tragic enough to change your mood.”

I think about it for a while, and then I grin, nodding. “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. I’d like that.”

So Jonathan picks a movie and we settle down to watch it with some popcorn, a box of tissues, and my laptop, ready to cry and write if need be.

It was only yesterday when the incident with Jessica happened at the banquet, and we haven’t spoken about it after our return, or mentioned our changed dynamic. I want to bring it up, to ask what it all meant, but every time I try, uncertainty knots in my stomach, and the words die in my throat.

The movie starts and we watch it in silence, my head resting on his shoulder. True to his words, the movie does make me sad enough to write the ending of my manuscript. He watches me do it, and he keeps reminding me of sad moments in the movie that should make me be able to control the emotion and write it down.

“And…done!” I yell the second I type “the end.” “We’ve come to the end of my first draft, oh wow! I mean, it definitely needs a lot of editing, but I hope Agnes likes the ending because she usually prefers to give books happy endings and—wait, why are you looking at me like that?”

He’s grinning, and his eyes are wide with adoration as he stares at me. “I’m just so proud of you, Emma. You did it. You didn’t give up, and now you have a fantastic manuscript to send over to your agent. That’s impressive.”

I feel myself blushing. “Well technically, you didn’t read all of it, so you don’t know it’s a masterpiece.”

“Everything you write is a masterpiece. I told you, I own all of your books, and I adore them.” He takes a very long pause. “And I adoreyou, Emma. You’re amazing and funny and witty, and I adore your very presence.”

My eyes tear up at his words, except this time they’re not sad tears. “Jonathan, where is this coming from?” I ask him.

Jonathan takes my hands in his, interlocking our fingers as he holds me tight.

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