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He slices chicken expertly, like he really knows what he is doing. His long fingers wrapped around the knife’s handle draw my attention with their precise, almost mesmerizing moves.

An image of those hands moving around my body flashes through my mind. Jesus. What’s wrong with me? Am I worshiping his hands now?

“Did he bring it to your bed?” Diane asks, shimmying her shoulders.

What?

“Come on, Diane, now behave; some things need to remain private.” Corm points the knife at her playfully.

“Okay, okay.” She giggles again. “I mean, this is off the record, but it’s not a secret that Corm has been partying hard in recent months. Doesn’t it bother you?”

Off the record, my ass. In the periphery of my sight, I more sense than see how Corm’s knife falters.

“I’m not the jealous type, Diane. I know what we have is special, and I trust him. Corm has a demanding job, and he needs to decompress. Unfortunately, I couldn’t be here with him, but I wouldn’t want him to give up living.”

I add a gentle smile to my performance.

My gaze meets his, and I blink. He’s staring at me with… admiration? That can’t be. Is he pleased with my lies?

I may lie through my teeth, but the words stir an unknown longing. I want to have a person in my life I can trust.

“That’s a solid base for a lasting relationship. Not that I would know.” Diane laughs. “Is it true that you gave up your career for him, Saar?”

Definitely not.“I was planning to retire, and maintaining a long-distance relationship isn’t ideal. Especially after Corm’s father passed. He needed me, so I came.”

“So romantic,” Diane gushes.

Corm takes a towel and wipes his hands, moving to me, his gaze glued to mine. What is he thinking?

He leans to kiss my hair. “It’s nice to have someone by my side.”

It’s like a wish. And maybe it’s my own baggage, but I almost feel the loneliness behind his words. His lips linger in my hair for a beat longer than necessary.

I know we’re both spitting lies, performing for the audience, but why do I feel we just had a strange bonding moment?

A shutter click startles me, and I blink a few times as the camera flashes. I swallow a gasp, my stomach shrinking in a nervous vise.

Do I have photo-related PTSD? I want to laugh at the thought, but after another few shutter clicks, I have to excuse myself.

I stumble out of the kitchen and rush to the powder room in the foyer. I grip the edge of the sink and bow my head, trying to catch my breath while my chest seems to have collapsed. Shit.

It’s like I’ve been tortured for years under the lens’s aim, and now, after I experienced a few weeks of freedom, the clicks and the flashes reopened the wounds. Wounds I didn’t even know I had.

Is this burnout? Or am I completely mental? Scared of a camera. What the actual fuck?

On the street after my lunch with Nora, I thought it was a reaction to being accosted with the engagement-ring questions. But maybe it’s deeper than that.

I breathe in and out for a few rounds, and then flush the toilet and run the water to cover my little freak-out.

When I open the door, I collide with a solid body. I brace for his condescending words, reminding me I should entertain the media. Instead, two strong arms wrap around me, and my fiancé holds me without a word.

What is happening? Besides my heart rate spiking and butterflies flapping around my stomach? Has Cormac Quinn just exhibited a rare show of affection and compassion?

How did he even pick up on my distress?

His heart beats against me as his chest rises and falls. The comfort of his embrace does the exact opposite of his intention. It brings tears to my eyes, painful hotness searing my throat. I can’t trust this, though.

I don’t deserve his kindness. It’s fake, anyway. And how am I going to hate him after this? I blink the tears away, hoping he won’t see them. But also hoping he will.