Page 91 of How to Ruin a Wedding

He takes another step away from me, then turns back, his face unreadable now. “Anders—”

His mouth presses on mine. If not for his fingers gripping the sides of my waist, pulling me closer to him, I’d fall over. All the wires in my head short-circuit, and I feel the bolts ricocheting throughout my body in hot, sudden flares.

My hands grab his neck, to pull him away, to bring him closer, to feel his skin under the pads of my fingers. Only when my head starts to spin—faster than it already does—do I press my hands on his chest.

Right before I lose my very last breath, he pulls away.

I’m trying to compose myself, and Anders, the bastard, simply wipes my lip stain from the side of his mouth, the most out-of-place thing about him, including the stray hairs falling at the side of his face.

“Sorry,” he says, his thumb caressing my lips, presumably to remove the smudged lip stain. “You wanted me to act, and that was the only way to hide.”

“It’s okay.” I step back.

“Actually.” He grabs my arm. “I’m not sorry. At all.” To prove his point, he presses another kiss to my lips, and I can feel my body heating at the speed of a kettle on a flame.

It’s way too easy to kiss Anders, to lose where the line between reality and acting lies. My heart shouldn’t beat at a thunderous pace; my body shouldn’t plead with me to look for him in every room and glue itself to his, and my brain should know better than to fall for someone who absolutely won’t stay with me.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I lie, shoving him off me.

I think someone calls my name, but I hurry through the vineyard, speed through bodies lining up for drinks, and throw myself out the exit. I’m not sure where to go, only that I need to get my traitorous heart and body as far away from Anders as possible.

I spot a lantern hanging at the opening of a trail—I’m not sure where it leads. Trying to keep my balance on the pebbled lot, I make my way to it. Then move to the next lantern that leads me to a path lined by hundreds of tiny lit bulbs, their yellow light pouring over the meticulously cared-for landscaping of fruit bushes and flowers.

Like a fairy garden come to life.

“Lucinda!” Anders, of course, grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop.

“Don’t start with me.” I yank my hand away.

The glow of the lights makes his skin a warm tan, and his hair is a shade lighter here. He looks perfect, as always, but now I feel the urge to shove his head through the bushes for it.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, undeterred.

“What’s wrong?” My eyes widen. “You. Me. Us. There’s no us, see? There’s the problem.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Oh, please.” I shove him with my finger. “You know what I mean.”

“Pretend I don’t,” he says, “spell it out for me.”

“I shouldn’t be buying you gifts,” I tell him.

“Well, you can’t have it back,” he answers bluntly.

The fact that that’s his first worry almost makes me smile, but the nerves simmering in my stomach remind me to be serious. I take a breath, calm myself. This conversation is long overdue. Instead of drawing lines between us in my head, I need to tell him they’re there.

“I just mean, I’m a temporary addition to your life. I’m here for a limited amount of time. I’m going to keep your sister from getting married, which is going to leave some hurt people for you to deal with when I’m gone. You’re paying me to do the job. I will do it well. But that’s the extent of this relationship between us.”

He crosses his arms against his chest. “Says who?”

“Excuse me?” I almost laugh. “Who needs to say it? These are all facts.”

“Not to me,” he says. “I understand if us, the way we are, how we were at the bar, if you think that’s all a mistake. I’d rather you say that directly to me than speak for me.”

“It’s not a mistake—wait, don’t you think it was a mistake?”

“When did I say that?”