Page 45 of Things We Fake
Chapter Fifteen
Sue
Somewhere between the champagne haze and Cam’s soul-jarring, bone-melting, panty-dampening kiss, I must have set my alarm last night. It chirped at me now, bright and chipper, too cheerful for how deep I’d been sleeping.
I surfaced slowly, stretching under the covers, the ghost of Cam’s mouth still tingling on mine. I felt fantastic. No headache, no queasy stomach. Just the warm, golden memory of a night I wanted to bottle and keep forever.
We’d played our parts like old pros—hand-holding, sharing bites, stolen glances. We’d turned that restaurant into a frigging sugar factory. Even the memory of Miss Boob-and-Butt-Lift, stomping around like a red-haired hurricane, couldn’t dim my mood. If anything, her tantrum had only stitched Cam and me closer together. I should send her a thank-you card. And maybe a fruit basket labeledBetter luck next time.
Grinning, I reached for my phone and opened the camera folder. Emilio had managed to snap two perfect pictures: one with me perched on Cam’s lap, both of ussmiling for the camera, the other with us gazing into each other’s eyes as though we were two seconds away from proposing. Oscar-worthy, if I did say so myself. Not that I was really acting, if I was honest. Maybe just exaggerating a little for effect.
I checked the clock—seven. Plenty of time to get ready before Cam picked me up. Singing “I Feel Good” under my breath, I hopped out of bed, started the coffee, and headed for the bathroom. After I showered, I took time with my hair, blow-drying and styling it the way Mr. Fred had explained.
As I brushed my teeth, I caught a glimpse of my favorite sleep shirt in the mirror. The cracked, looping letters caught the light, and I squinted at them.
“Love is... leaf?Live is... beef? No, wait—life is… rolls?”
I tilted my head, toothbrush in hand. “What is this, a cook’s manifesto?”
I gave up with a snort. It was still just an ancient sleep shirt with a soft neckline and a cryptic message I couldn’t quite decode—like most of my love life.
I traded my usual Sunday bare-bones routine for a proper glow-up—foundation, a sweep of shadow, mascara, and gloss—then slipped on a blue V-neck, my favorite jeans and high-heeled boots. Humming under my breath, I sat down with a stack of papers to grade while waiting for Prince Charming to arrive.
At exactly 9:50, there was a knock on my door. Grinning at his eagerness, I shoved the papers into my briefcase and crossed the room, ready to tease him for coming early.
One look at his face wiped the words clean from my mind. Cam was pale, almost green under his tan. His eyes—normally so warm, so alive—were flat with misery.
My heart plummeted into my stomach.
“Cam, what’s wrong?”
“Can I come in?” His voice was rough around the edges. “We need to talk.”
Fear prickled the back of my neck. “Of course. What happened?”
“Brittany happened.” He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “At least I think it was Brittany.”
My stomach turned cold. What the hell had that witch done?
He dropped onto the couch as though someone had cut his strings. In his hand, he clutched a folded newspaper, already crumpled from the force of his grip.
“Page sixteen.” He held it out to me. His voice was quiet, strained. “I’m so, so sorry, Sue. If I’d had any idea—”
I snatched the paper from his hand, flipping to the page he’d mentioned, and stopped breathing. Holy crap. There, just below the fold on the society page, under a photo of the mayor smiling at some black-tie gala, was the headline:
WILL HE PUT A RING ON IT?
Two pictures sat below it, framed in damning, glossy color. The first one showed us last night at the restaurant—Cam lifting my hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss against my knuckles, caught in profile.
Anyone who knew us would recognize us. Hell, anyone with eyes could see the way we looked at each other.
The second photo…
My throat closed.
It was us, standing on the sidewalk in front of my building, kissing under the full moon. My hands clutched the lapels of his coat, his arms were wrapped around me, our bodies pressed together in a way that was intimate, possessive, real.
I pressed my hand to my stomach, willing it to settle. I could still feel that kiss, still taste it. And now it wasn’t ours anymore. It had been stolen, plastered on cheap newsprint for strangers to gawk at.
