Page 90 of Things We Fake
He laughed, his thumb brushing over my knuckles in soothing circles. “Then just edit your answers a little. We’ve practiced this for your parents, remember? My mom isn’t much different.”
“Yeah, right.” I dropped my chin onto my palm, stabbing a piece of tomato. “We’re doomed.”
“No, we’re not. Now finish eating while I run next door to take a quick shower. I’ll be back in ten minutes to drive you to work before I go to the office.”
* * *
I was deliriously happy after last night, and after Cam’s statement this morning about us being in a committed relationship. Things seemed to finally go well for me, better than they’d ever had. But there were cracks in the wall. The lie of our engagement was even scarier. What was going to happen now that we were actually sleeping together? Cam had confessed to having commitment issues after Brittany. Would he freak out at the thought of being trapped? Would we still be able to part as friends whenever we decided to end our agreement? The thought of ending anything with Cam sent cold chills creeping down my spine. I had just found this amazing man, kind, loving, smart, and a sex god to boot. The thought of not being with him made me physically ill.
And there was the shadow of tomorrow. A dark cloud looming above my head, a cloud that kept asking meHow does this make you feel?
There was no way I could fool Cam’s mother. Damn it, why hadn’t he told me before? Not that I had any clue as to what I could have done differently. There was only one way out of this: I had to convince Helen Jones that I was madly in love with her son. Which was absolutely true. And that realization scared me the most. If he didn’t grow to feel the same about me, he wouldleave me heartbroken in a way no one ever had—not even Neil.
Jesse messaged me to ask if Cam and I had tried the sex swing yet. I told her not yet.
Mom had called to ask if we were still on for dinner tomorrow evening, and after checking with Cam I reported back yes.
No tsunami had swamped New York. We had to go through with this.
Cam had made a dinner reservation for tomorrow evening at The River Café, an iconic spot nestled under the Brooklyn Bridge with breathtaking views of the Manhattan skyline. It was the kind of place people booked months in advance, but most people didn’t have Cameron Jones’s resources. I didn’t know whether he’d called in a favor, offered an obscenely generous tip, or just flashed his name around; he’d somehow managed to secure a table for eight in less than a week.
It was the kind of restaurant designed for milestone celebrations and whispered confessions of love. Instead, it was going to host my family, which meant my father would loudly critique the food, Paul would turn dinner into a drinking competition, and Michelle—bless her pregnant soul—would wear a path to the bathroom before dessert even arrived.
And that was before factoring in the psychologist mother-in-law situation.
By the end of the day, I was so stressed I was practically hyperventilating. To make things worse, today was reading club day, which meant staying an extra two hours at work while a group of hyperactive seventh graders half-discussed the assigned book andhalf-used the time to argue over plot twists and dramatically act out their favorite scenes like we were staging an off-Broadway production. Normally, I loved seeing them get excited about stories, but today, keeping them focused felt like trying to herd caffeinated squirrels.
As I headed home in the afternoon, I fantasized about a hot bath and some takeout. After the long day I’d had, nothing sounded more appealing than soaking in a tub until my fingers pruned, while stuffing my face with something greasy and carb-loaded. Maybe I’d even catch up on the true crime documentary I’d started last week.
I trudged up the steps to my apartment, fishing my keys out of my bag. As I pulled them free, the tiny silver pig charm from Tiffany’s jingled against the keyring—a tiny, ridiculously cute, reassuring presence. I smiled at my little companion, mentally debating between lo mein or pizza. But the moment I opened my door, I froze.
The air smelled incredible—spicy and mouthwatering. The scent of flowers and fine food tickled my nostrils, and I smelled something with aromatic herbs and a hint of butter.
Candlelight flickered across the walls, soft and golden. The table, which usually hosted my unopened mail and half-drunk coffee cups, was transformed into something out of a movie scene. A pristine white tablecloth, two plates set with polished silverware, and a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket of ice. And flowers—there were flowers everywhere, each surface adorned by crystal vases filled with red roses.
In the background, the sensual, sultry notes of Flamenco guitar undulated through the air—the kind of music that turns your blood hot and your body fluid.
I blinked, my brain short-circuiting. This couldn’t be my apartment.
“Welcome home, sweetheart,” Cam’s voice came from the kitchen.
I turned, and there he was, leaning casually against the counter, looking ridiculously sexy in a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing his forearms. His smile made the dozens of candles pale by comparison.
I took a moment to find my voice. “What is happening?”
He grinned, pushing off the counter and strolling toward me. “Romance, obviously.”
“You did all this?”
“Well, I had a little help. The food is from La Sirena. I figured I’d spare you my dinner cooking.”
“La Sirena?” My jaw nearly hit the floor. That place had a six-month waitlist.
“I called in a favor.”
I took a deep breath, trying to process everything. The food. The candles. The sheer amount of flowers filling my tiny apartment, making it look like the inside of a fairytale. And then my eyes landed on the far wall, where the massive box that held the sex swing was nowhere to be seen. I blinked at the empty space. “Where’s the—”
“Oh, that? I had it taken care of.” His expression remained completely innocent.
