Page 60 of Devil's Iris

People who aren’t fake-engaged to dangerous men they’re definitely not supposed to be falling for.

After my shower, I make my way to the walk-in closet and my feet just sort of shuffle to a stop, my jaw dropping. Rows and rows of clothes hang on what was previously my empty side of the closet.

“What the–” I blink hard, sure I’m hallucinating, but no. They’re real. They’re all there. Dresses, cashmere sweaters, silk shirts, designer jeans, elegant skirts. It’s like a mini boutique’s worth of gorgeous clothing.

I approach cautiously, like the clothes might attack me, and tentatively touch the fabric of one dress.It’s so soft.How the hell did?—

Romero.

That determined look in his eyes last night when he told me to buy all of them flashes through my memory, and I sigh heavily. How am I supposed to avoid him when he does things like this?

My heart pounds, my core clenches, and my palms grow sweaty just thinking about talking to him. Shit. I’m in so much trouble.

By the time I make it downstairs, I don’t know whether I’m disappointed or relieved to find he really is gone. I swallow as I read the little note he left for me on the countertop.

Something urgent came up with a case at work so I had to leave early.

—R

I pocket the note and grab a bowl and spoon from the cabinet. Do I text him about the closet discovery? Call him? Wait for him to get home? What’s the protocol when your fake fiancé fills your closet with designer clothes after giving you the best orgasm of your life?

There’s probably not a handbook for this situation.

I pour cereal, and my heart thuds as a deeper part of me whispers things I don’t want to hear. That I like it. That I likehim. “I don’t.” I slam the milk carton down, a little milk sloshing onto the counter. “I can’t.”

With a sharp breath, I grab a rag and swipe the spill away before sinking into a chair. The cereal goes soggy fast, but I shovel in a few bites anyway, trying to drown out my thoughts.

I’m midway through my bowl when my phone buzzes with a notification. I jump, thinking it’s Romero, but it’s just Emily adding me to a group chat.

The title makes my spine straighten:

Leni’s Bachelorette Party Discussion

Oh shit. I didn’t get a chance to tell Romero that the girls were scandalized on my behalf about not having a bachelorette party planned. They declared it absolute sacrilege, and since none of them got to have one, they’ve decided to live vicariously through me.

Messages start flooding in almost instantly.

EMILY M

Who else is hyped for the bachelorette next Thursday?

GIA H

Welp, I am! I’m pumping milk like crazy this week so my girls have enough because mama is FINALLY having alcohol again.

ELIRA L

Must you rub it in, Gia? I’m the only one in the group who can’t drink at this thing. Don’t taunt the pregnant lady

I chuckle at their antics.

They’ve already picked a date—next Thursday!

They must have another group where they’re planning the actual details because I’ve been assured it’s going to be a ‘lovely surprise’.

I don’t even know if Romero will be happy with this development. My smile fades as I realize I should probably check with him first. I’m about to text him when my phone pings with a message from him, and my heart seizes.

Are we thinking about each other at the same time?