Page 22 of Sweet Caroline
“Hey, Care-bear.” Fletcher leans in to press a kiss to my cheek and I stiffen.
I flick a brief glance at Miles, whose expression hardens slightly, reminding me of the one he wore when that moaning weirdo approached me at the gym.
“Do you want me to…” Looking conflicted, Miles gestures over his shoulder and backs up a few steps toward the door. “Like, want me to take off? You seem busy. I can come back later or something.”
“No,” I blurt out, louder than I meant to. The last thing I wantis to be left alone with Fletcher. Plus, my ex has gotten what he wants far more often than he deserves; I’m not letting him chase Miles off. “Don’t go. Please.”
He checks the time on his phone and I breathe easier when he gives me a small nod.
Fletcher shifts his frowning gaze between us and turns his back to Miles. “Look, babe, I happened to be in town and wanted to stop by and check in about the fundraiser on Saturday. You never answered my texts.”
“There’s nothing to check in about,” I say, taking a small step backward, trying to hide my disgust at how Fletcher called mebabeagain. With all the political schmoozing he does, it’s like he can’t turn it off. But I refuse to be schmoozed.
“And why aren’t you wearing your engagement ring?” he asks, jerking his chin toward my bare ring finger. “If we’re gonna squash this story?—”
“I forgot.” It’s a lie. And, I have to admit, the impulse to reveal the truth—that I’ve been wearing it as little as humanly possible because I’d rather swallow broken glass—is strong. “And I’ll see you there. On Saturday.”
He clenches his jaw. “No, I should pick you up. It’ll look better if we arrive together.”
I balk, but catch myself.
Don’t make a scene, Caroline.
Squaring my shoulders, I say, “That won’t be necessary.”
He laughs, ugly condescension in his voice. “Don’t be ridiculous. We always go together. The media will drag us over the rocks if they get wind of anything, and we need to nip this little”—he glances over his shoulder at Miles—“rumorin the bud. Pete was clear about our arrangement, Care.”
“I know.”
“Speaking of which, Linda’s firm arranged the photographer forFriday.”
My stomach churns at the reminder of the PR scheme proposed in Dad’s email.
Fletcher continues, “They’ll meet us at the restaurant and follow us to the hotel for some candid shots. You know, romantic evening away kind of deal.”
A weight presses on my chest. Gritting my teeth through dinner is one thing, but being trapped in a hotel room with Fletcher overnight would be hell. Even thinking about it nauseates me.
I can’t do this…
Scrambling for escape, my mind conjures up an image. A way out. What if, instead, I showed up Saturday with the same guy from the photo, so it would look real? Like an actual relationship—not just a fling. The prospect shimmers in my mind like an oasis in a desert, and I flick my eyes to the man who saved me from a jerk once before.
Could we pull it off? Could he?
“The photos will be leaked to the press,” Fletcher drones on, and the oasis evaporates into thin air. “Discreetly, of course. That should take care of this unfortunate situation you’ve gotten us into.”
Revulsion crawls up my spine.
“No.” The word comes out before I realize what I’ve said.
“No?” Fletcher echoes, throwing his arms out at his sides like he’s never heard the word before. “What do you mean,no?”
“I’m not going with you,” I say, my voice flat. Crossing my arms over my chest, I tuck my shaking hands into the fluffy folds of my sweater. “I’m not doing the restaurant or the… the romantic hotel thing.”
Panic and courage battle for control in my chest.
What am I doing?
“And I’m not going with you to the fundraiser Saturday, either.”
