Page 131 of Vows We Never Made

The restaurant quiets as people turn to look at me.

My fists stay clenched in shaky little balls at my sides.

I’m wrestling with my temper.

I’ve never stood up to Mom and her pathological fixation on health and appearance before.

But this has to be the day.

“Hattie, sit down,” Mom pleads, her eyes shifting around, very aware we’re now the center of attention. That’s her all over, always worried what other people will think. “You’re making a scene,” she adds miserably.

“Yes. Because I’ve heard enough,” I tell her. “Enough shaming me into starving myself. I’m a grown woman. I make my own choices. I’m marrying a flipping billionaire hottie who wants me forme. Can’t you respect any of that?”

She stares at me, frowning, her fork clattering against her plate. “Hattie, please. You’re being rude!”

“Rude? No. That’s you, always pecking, refusing toleave me alone.”

Holy shit, my heart drums.

“You know I just want the best for you. I always have. And I want you to hang on to this wonderful man!”

Hang on.

Like one wrong move or one extra pound and he’ll be out the door.

The words sting, and they shouldn’t.

Deep down, I know this marriage isn’t real—I agreed to it—no matter how amazing it’s been lately.

Just like I know Ethan isn’t really marrying me for me.

He’s marrying me for money, to satisfy his grandfather’s wacko requirement, and six months down the line, we’ll amicably divorce.

I won’t leave empty-handed, of course.

Quite the opposite.

I’ve got my bookstore and my dreams served up on a silver platter.

And Ethan, he can walk away with his inheritance and whatever weird secrets he still won’t open up about even though we’d had some perfect moments.

Like whatever it was that drove him away when he was young.

Argh.

Every time I think this might be gettingreal, he shuts down.

He reminds me what this truly is.

And he makes it all too easy for Mom’s hamfisted remarks and judgments to shred my heart.

Sometimes, it feels like he’ll never fully trust me, even if we had to stick together six years rather than six months.

Sighing, I throw myself back in my chair, my knees suddenly weak.

“I don’t need you to look out for me anymore. Not like this,” I whisper.

She covers her hand with mine.