Page 61 of Love is Fake

“I feel sick.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” he says.

I drop the phone and look at him. He’s shaking his head. Sighing. But he’s not saying much.

I turn away from him, rushing out of the room, leaving him cursing behind me. I need some fresh air. I need to think.

I run down the stairs, hearing him pounding down them after me. He should be careful of his knee, I think to myself, absently. But just as quickly, I remind myself that I shouldn’t give a crap about his knee, I shouldn’t give a crap about him at all.

I never understood when people were talking about a love/hate relationship, but I think I get it now, because I’ve moved from one to the other so quickly, I might have broken the sound barrier.

“Izzy, stop!”

Nope, not stopping, definitely not.

In the end, he doesn’t give me the choice, catching up to me and grabbing hold of my arm at the bottom of the steps. His grip is gentle, but firm and I hate him for the way I so desperately want to lean into his touch, as if my body didn’t get the message that he’s the biggest bastard I’ve ever met.

“We don’t have much time, and I want to explain it all to you before she gets here.” Lennox’s eyes bore into mine as if he’s trying to read my thoughts.

“Until she does what?”

This feels like a nightmare, like my sub-conscious has come up with the worst possible ending for us and manifested it. If I could wake up now, that would be really great.

Before I start to pinch myself, there’s an insistent knock at the front door and I see Lennox’s face fall.

“Fuck, not now,” he growls, his grip on my arm tightening involuntarily.

“Nox, you’re hurting me,” I tell him, even though he’s not. I just need him to stop touching me. He delivers, dropping my arm like I’ve burned him.

He looks horrified. “Izzy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -,”

I never get to find out whether he’s apologizing for lying to me, for keeping secrets from me or for grabbing me.

The front door creaks open and there’s a squeal of excitement and a flurry of blonde hair and clattering of high heels.

“Noxy, I missed you!” The Amazonian stick-thin blonde throws her arms around Lennox and peppers his lips with kisses. He holds onto her upper arms and tries to create a little space between them, his eyes on me.

I guess I should be grateful he’s trying to spare my feelings, but pity is the last damn thing I feel for Lennox Gray right now. Besides, it’s way too late to spare my feelings, that ship has well and truly sailed.

Now, I’m definitely going to be sick. I step away from them, hoping I can slip out and just disappear without being noticed. But – as always – my luck is nowhere near that good.

“Did you see the socials? Isn’t it great?” She’s bouncing up and down in excitement and hasn’t seemed to notice Lennox is still standing there like a damn statue as she shows him her phone like a kid showing off a report card full of As.

Lennox doesn’t even look at her phone, his eyes are locked on mine.

“Who’s this?” Honey eventually notices the lack of attention Lennox or ‘Noxy’ is paying her and looks down her perfect nose at me, a feat which isn’t all that difficult as she’s almost a foot taller.

“This is Isabella,” he says simply, warmly even, and I can almost see her hackles rise at his tone. “And Honey…we need to –“

I have no intention of getting in the middle of this and I don’t know what game Lennox is playing, but I’m ready to cash in my chips and head the hell home.

“I’m Mr. Gray’s physical therapist,” I add quickly, avoiding the look Lennox throws me. I try to smile at her, but it probably looks more like a grimace.

“Oh, sure, the masseuse for your elbow, right?” Honey looks to Lennox for verification.

“Knee,” I correct automatically, and she looks at me as if I’ve offended her for answering a question not directed at me. I guess she figures the help should be silent and subservient.

“Whatever,” she shrugs, dismissing me with a wave of her manicured hand. “I’ll just go upstairs and start getting settled in. The driver will bring in the rest of my things.” Honey gestures upstairs, blissfully unaware her words are rubbing salt into my open wound.

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