Page 45 of How to Kidnap a Fake Date
I clear my throat. ‘So.’
‘So.’
‘When’s the wedding?’
She swallows hard and keeps her eyes on the canopy above us. ‘In six days.’
I snap my head towards her. ‘Six days?’
‘Yes.’
Six days in this oversized cage with my kidnapper and a family of killers.Fuck me.
‘What the hell are we supposed to do until then?’
Maggie fidgets with the hem of her pyjama shirt. ‘There are parties. And rehearsals. And games.’
‘Games?’
‘It’s a whole thing. Society weddings. They don’t just do everything on one day. There are events upon events. Some family, some extended guests.’
‘Fuck.’
Maggie’s eyebrows rise.
‘Not like that. Jesus, Maggie. I don’t even trust I’ll wake up in one piece.’
Her face flushes.
‘Yeah,’ she whispers. ‘Me neither.’
‘That doesn’t fill me with confidence,’ I say.
‘If you’re looking for confidence, you’ve got the wrong woman. I can give you zip ties and anxiety, maybe even some slightly burnt cookies. But for confidence, you need my sister. It’s one of the many reasons everyone prefers her.’
I roll on my side, facing Maggie.
I want to tell her that what she thinks about herself isn’t true. That given half a chance, someone would love to date her. But remembering who she really is… I can’t commit to that thought. The cute but odd neighbour isn’t who I thought she was.
Instead, I close my eyes, blocking her out, and hope to see the morning.
15
MAGGIE
Clay pigeon shooting is another activity that I’m sure was invented to make an arse of me. Slippery mud, loud guns that make me flinch with every shot, and my inability to ever hit anything.
My fingers are fucking frozen, and my ass is numb, and I’m trying my best to curb my runny nose without wiping it on my sleeve like a four-year-old. Everything is green and covered with a glittering layer of frost as far as the eye can see.
Eliza looks flawless in her wax jacket, tight trousers and elegant riding boots. Hair tied back into a sweeping red ponytail, the gun tucked into her shoulder like it was made just to accessorise her awesomeness. She calmly strikes clay after clay like it’s nothing.
My brother, Fraser, is hovering a little to one side, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched, and looking nearly as miserable as me. When he does shoot, at least he hits the stupid clays on occasion.
And there’s Roman.
Roman, who has apparently never shot anything in his life, has taken to it like a duck to fucking water.
Annoyingly so.
