Page 69 of The Fiancée Farce
“And especially knowing what I know now, your history with Lucy, it wouldn’t be fair to either of us if I forgot the, um”—Tansy frowned thoughtfully—“parameters of our partnership.”
Gemma let her hand fall from Tansy’s shoulder to the table. “I see.”
The choices she’d made, whether she’d meant for them to or not, had hurt Lucy. Had caused what she was beginning to realize was irreparable damage to their friendship.
The thought of hurting Tansy, Tansy who had already had her heart broken by one Van Dalen, was—unthinkable. She reached for her drink and knocked it back, melting ice and all, praying it would settle her stomach.
No matter how badly Gemma wanted Tansy, how terribly she wanted to touch Tansy and give her pleasure, it was impossible to refute Tansy’s point. Her logic.
“It’s just that I realized when I was hiding in the hallway how easy it would be to lose sight of the line here,” Tansy tacked on.
Chugging what remained of her drink had done nothing but make her chest cold and her stomach cramp uncomfortably. “Line?”
“Between what’s real and what isn’t,” Tansy explained. “We’re having to pretend for everyone else,lieto everyone else.” Tansy’s bottom lip started to wobble. She coughed, quickly composing herself. “I don’t want to lie to you, and I definitely don’t want to start lying to myself.”
Gemma didn’t want that, either.
“You’re right,” she said, running her fingers through the condensation on the table left behind by her glass. “That’s the last thing I want. We’re partners, and I—I can’t say I don’t think this sucks, because fuck, does it ever, but your logic is sound and I’m—I’m glad you trusted me with this. Really.”
Gemma cared too much about Tansy to jeopardize any of this—Tansy’s feelings, their engagement, her inheritance, Tansy’s bookstore.
But Jesus Christ were the next two years going to suck, remaining celibate.
“I guess I should let you get back to work,” she said, standing.
The leather creaked as Tansy wiggled out of the booth. “We’re okay, right?”
She forced a smile that felt a thousand kinds of wrong. “We’re great.”
Chapter Twelve
Gemma’s hands shook as she shoved her key in the front door.
She didn’t have a lot of experience with breakups, but fuck if it didn’t feel like she’d just gone through one.
Tequila, copious amount of sugary goodness, and rom-coms—she’d never understood why people gravitated toward romance after breakups; was it catharsis? It sounded like untimely torture, honestly—were the standard fare for breakups, right? It couldn’t hurt to follow the script.
Finallyshe got the door open and—stopped in the doorway.
Brooks was stretched out on her couch, looking at home, leisurely sipping what appeared to be a glass of orange juice through a striped straw.
“Uncle Brooks, isn’t this a surprise?” She set her purse on the floor, scanning the living room for clues of which of her roommates was home. Which of her roommates was going to be on trash duty for an eternity, because theyallknew better than to let anyone with the last name Van Dalen through the front door, unless it was her. It was their most important apartment rule. It was theironlyapartment rule. “Who let you in?”
Brooks took a sip of orange juice. He held the glass up to the light and frowned distastefully. “Blech.Pulp. Awful stuff.” He setthe glass down on the coffee table, sans coaster. “I rang the buzzer out front. When no one answered, I let myself in.”
“I never gave you a key.”
Brooks smiled enigmatically. “I know.”
Gemma perched on the chair across from him. “I’d tell you that was creepy, but I’m sure you’re already aware.”
And it was probably half the appeal.
Brooks’s smile widened. “Not that these pleasantries aren’tpleasant, but let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”
Please.She was too tired for games. “Let’s.”
“Your engagement is a sham, and I know it.”
