“You’re making me sound like a pussy,” I muse and then toss the drink back.
“You are that, but . . .”
I turn, huffing loudly. “Are you here to help or piss me off?”
“Which am I doing?”
“Take a guess.”
Gray laughs. “Ease up, Ollie. I’m just saying that you’re a good guy.”
“No,” I say, stopping whatever else he might be thinking. “I’m no better than Dad.”
Grayson, the annoying dickhead he is, shakes his head. “You are not Dad.”
“I’m fucking lying to everyone. I’m going to pretend to marry someone.”
“For a good cause.”
“And I am sure he thought all his lies were for a good reason.”
Grayson tilts his head. “You really think that? You really think he gave a single fuck about anyone other than himself? I promise you, he didn’t. He didn’t protect us with his lies. He lied because he was too selfish to admit he was cheating on Mom. What is your gain in this? What do you get out of helping Maren? Where is your prize?”
I turn around again, going back to the bar area to pour another drink. I’m going to be wasted if I keep this up, but I can’t seem to calm myself. My brother might be right that there’s no real gain for me, but I’m still lying. Regardless of what I said to Maren, it feels a little different today.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“And what about Maren’s prize? All she gains is making a dying man happy. She doesn’t get anything personal from it.”
“So, lying is fine as long as you don’t get anything out of it?”
Grayson runs his hands through his hair. “No, but if I were dying, and Melia was alone in the world, I would want to know that she was going to be okay. What she’s giving Pat is a gift, and if you don’t see that, then . . . I don’t know.”
I laugh because that was the same shit I told Maren yesterday.
I sit in the chair opposite of him, my drink in my hand, and I close my eyes. There’s a sharp pain in my abdomen, and I take my punishment. “I really wish I knew how to say no.”
Grayson leans forward. “Well, you don’t, so best not to dwell on it because you and I both know you aren’t going to call this off.”
He’s right. No matter how bad of an idea I think this is, I won’t let her down. Why won’t I let her down? Why do I care so much?
Is it because I like kissing her? Is it because, last night, I dreamed that all this was real? That I was watching the woman I love walk to me, ready to say the words I hoped someone would say. That’s ridiculous.
I like her. I want her, but I don’t love her.
I barely know her.
Yet, this morning, I wanted to call her and hear her voice. I wanted to curl up on the couch with her so we could talk about how we feel about what’s about to go down.
Jesus. I need to get it together.
“I need to be alone,” I tell my brother.
He sighs and gets up. I watch him walk to the bar area and grab the bottles. “I’ll leave, but you need to stop drinking and get out of your head.”
“Asshole.”
Grayson leaves, and I’m alone without booze or anything else but my thoughts. Before I can go down the rabbit hole of doom, someone knocks.
“Hi, Uncle Oliver,” Amelia and Kinsley say when I open the door.
“Hi, girls.”
“Are you excited?” Kinsley asks.
“Sure am.”
These two have no idea this is all fake. Well, maybe Kinsley does. She’s smart and devious like her mother.
“We came to keep you company while you wait to get married!” Amelia says with a huge grin. She rushes forward, wrapping her arms around my legs. “I’m so happy.”
I’m glad someone is.
I’m not sure how much of these kids I can handle. “I don’t think you guys need to stay.”
My stomach roils, and I think I’m going to be sick. Maybe that last glass of whiskey wasn’t such a great idea.
“But we have to,” Amelia says as she releases me. “Daddy said we have to make you smile, and I always make you smile.”
“You do,” I tell her with sincerity. “But I am tired and just want to rest.”
Kinsley clears her throat. “We were told we had to stay.”
“In case I plan to run?”
She shrugs. “Unfortunately, you’re considered a flight risk.”
“You’re too much like your mother,” I say as I get a flashback of my sister at her age.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She would.
The girls settle in, going on and on. Amelia talks a mile a minute, telling me about the new dance teacher she has and how much fun the class is now. “But I don’t like putting my hair in a tight bun,” she says.
“Uh-huh.”
“It hurts sometimes because Mommy uses the clips I don’t like.”
“Sounds terrible,” I say, not registering what she’s saying.
I’m too absorbed with thinking of Maren and what she must be feeling. My thoughts go in circles, trying to wrap my mind around it all. Is she upset? Is she regretting it? Is she going to go through with it, or will I look like an idiot standing there with no bride?
My obligation to the resort is fulfilled. We successfully had our soft opening. The staff have been exceptional, and the issues we’ve found have been easily rectified. The fully booked rooms allowed us to push the project to the finish line. Also, Maren’s aunt is a travel blogger and told Maren she couldn’t wait to post about her stay.
All of this is good. I should be happy, but instead, I’m a wreck.
And I can’t stop thinking about Maren.
A hand waves in front of my face. “Hello? Are you in there?”
“Yeah, sorry, I . . .”
“You’re freaking out. Are you going to bolt? I have a code word I’m supposed to use if so,” Kinsley says, grabbing her phone.
“No, I’m not ready to bolt.”
She shakes her head, watching me closely before typing on the phone.
“What’s the code?” I ask.
“Chicken.”
“No doubt it’s what your mother picked?” I ask, and Kinsley smiles.
I hate my siblings some days.
I look down at her phone, and sure enough, the word is there. “Let me go talk to her for a second,” she says while getting eye-to-eye with her younger cousin. “Come on, Melia. We need reinforcements. We’ll be right back.”
“I’m fine, Kins.”
She shrugs. “I’d rather not be in trouble with the boss. She can get really scary.”
“And who is the chicken now?”
“You.”
“Just go so your mother doesn’t freak out,” I tell her with a chuckle.
She and Melia leave, and the room phone rings a few minutes later. I answer it with a very deep groan. “Hello, Stella. I’m not going to run. I’m just freaking fine—pissed off because our stupid older brother took my whiskey—but I’m not channeling my inner track star.”
“That’s great. Well, not about the whiskey though,” a soft voice replies.
Maren.
“I thought . . .”
“That I was Stella?” she finishes.
“Yeah.”
“I was having my own little freak out session before. Devney had to calm me down—again.”