Page 53 of Merry Fake Bride

“That’s business. But I have an even better idea than blowing up my career trying to stop this deal. If we were married for real, then your bakery would become a Sycamore family asset which would give me more leeway over what happens to it. And your becoming my wife would give you access to more than enough money to protest and buy the land rights that were unfairly scooped from you by Silver Canopy. And you’d win. With how long your family has owned the bakery and worked on that spot, I don’t see how you wouldn’t immediately win. Of course, it would mean that getting married for real comes with its challenges, the greatest being my mother, but she already knows because of the insurance…”

I trail off as I turn to Devon and the warmth in my chest as I babbled mindlessly quickly turns to stone.

The look on Devon’s face is far from what I hope.

The warmth has left her eyes.

Her half-eaten toast now rests on her plate and both her hands are in her lap below the counter.

It’s like a shadow has drifted in while my back was turned and swallowed up her light.

A chill steals across my skin.

“Devon?”

Things were going well, I thought.

She seemed relaxed and open to the conversation as much as I was, and while I was keeping everything light, I was doing my best to paint this in as beneficial a light as I could.

“I, uhm… no.” She slides from her stool and doesn’t meet my eyes. “It’s a kind offer, but no. I don’t want to marry you.”

“It wouldn’t be a real marriage, just a way to help you?—”

“I said no!” she snaps and meets my eyes for a split second. Distress storms in hers and my heart rate spikes as she backs away. “I should get my things and go.”

Was it something I said?

Our warm breakfast turns as icy as a meal with my late father, and I follow her as she hurries toward the stairs, stopping just at the lounge so I’m not chasing her.

“Devon—”

“Please,” she says shortly. “I have to go.”

“Okay. I’ll organize a driver to take you home.”

Devon vanishes back up the stairs without a word and I’m left to the familiar, empty silence of my apartment.

She’s taken all the light with her.

Devon remains upstairs in the bathroom when I bring her laundered clothes, and she doesn’t come down until I call up to her about her driver being ready.

She leaves in a whirlwind, thanking me for breakfast and helping her last night, and then she’s gone.

It only took seven minutes for the best morning of my life to crumble.

I replay the conversation in my mind trying to pinpoint exactly what I said that caused her to clam up so quickly, but nothing sticks out.

Maybe it’s not what I said.

Maybe it’s who I am.

13

DEVON

The weather is turning.

The downpour two nights ago was a prelude to the winter storms that blow through my small town on their way to make New York the picture-perfect wonderland we see in the movies.