Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

MACY

M y fingers shake as I test my blood sugar levels—and it's not because of the stupid finger prick.

It feels weird, getting ready for bed in Wood's bathroom, the one off his room instead of the guest bathroom off the hall. He has his shaving cream and hair gel out on the white concrete counter, but it's pushed tidily into the corner. The sink is clean, no little hair shavings. Don't know why that surprises me. And the whole room faintly smells of his cologne. Or maybe it's his bodywash. I like the smell.

I'm being silly.

This whole thing is silly. Right?

Right.

Totally.

I shouldn't have agreed to this little scheme. I should just go out there and tell him I've changed my mind.

No one will believe us anyway. I mean, Wood is literally a ten. He's charismatic. He can get any woman he wants, and he does. Why would he be with me? I'm quiet and nerdy. I'm a six. Maybe a seven if I put some effort into it.

Staring in the mirror, all I see is pale skin covered in freckles and frizzy red hair I can never tame. Both sources of endless teasing growing up. The ratty old sleep shorts and giant Garfield T-shirt I've had since high school that says ‘I hate Mondays' really complete the look.

I'm convinced that Wood would never in a million years date me. I've seen the girls he goes out with. Nothing below a nine.

I've washed my face and brushed my teeth and now there's nothing to do but go out there and tell Wood this was a bad idea. And then I will go to the wedding…dumped and alone. With Spencer and his family there…all week.

Fudge.

I don't know if I can do this thing with Wood. But doing that—going alone and sad—that sounds worse.

I point at myself in the mirror and puff up my chest. "You can do this."

You can do this.

I close my eyes and exhale as I open the door to Wood's room, where he's waiting for me in his bed.

I can't do this.

But when I open my eyes, he isn't sitting in his bed, topless like I'd imagined for whatever reason—we'll dissect that later. No, he's making the bed with new sheets. And on the floor is a makeshift bed of blankets and pillows.

"What is this?"

He looks up at me with a lopsided smile. "Making the bed for you. I want you to be comfortable."

"No, I mean…" I gesture to the blankets on the floor.

"That's where I'll be sleeping."

"Oh. You didn't have to do that."

"Nah, I can sleep anywhere."

"No, really?—"

He shrugs me off. "I'm good. Do you need anything?"

Over on the nightstand there's a full glass of water, a little bowl of roasted almonds and an underripe banana. He knew to get an underripe one.

"No." I don't know what to say. "I mean, thank you."

"No problem." He lays down on the blankets, adjusting the pillows, and I turn off the light and get into his bed, not knowing what else to do.

It's comfy. Soft. The sheets smell clean, like rain-scented soap. They don't smell like him, and I'm alarmingly disappointed by this. I feel terrible. He shouldn't be the one sleeping on the floor.

I lean over the edge of the bed to tell him this is silly, him sleeping on the floor. In fact, the whole thing is silly. I'm just going to go back up to the loft and forget it.

"Psst. Wood."

No movement. No stirring. I listen closely, holding my breath to hear his low, rhythmic breathing. He's already asleep.

"Okay, you remember the story?" Wood asks.

"Yes."

I'm standing here, in his room, mid-morning, wearing only one of his large T-shirts. I told him I always wear my Garfield T-shirt, and I would never go out to the kitchen in just this.

"Not today," he'd said.

I swallow as my heart races. He's standing there casually, in just low-slung sweatpants. I'm wearing the other part of his outfit, presumably.

He comes up to me, assessing. "One more thing."

Then he puts both of his hands into my hair and swirls them around, making it a mess.

"Was that necessary?" I ask, ignoring the fact that his fingers against my scalp did feel kind of nice.

"If you think you'd spend the night with me and I wouldn't mess up your hair, I need to work on my reputation," he says with a chuckle and a wink.

Oh.

My silly little brain sends an ego boost of serotonin through my body when Wood talks about spending the night with him—as if it thinks he's actually talking about wanting to sleep with me and mess up my hair, and not this pretend thing.

"You look good." He flashes me a hint of white teeth then opens the door. "After you."

I'd never do this in real life. Flaunt a one-night stand—not that I've had any. Walk around in his shirt with no pants? Never.

I keep one hand tugged down on the hem so it doesn't ride up and flash my underwear. I pad out, bare feet on the cool concrete, to where Livvy and Noah are already in the kitchen, his arm around her waist as she sips some coffee.

Wood's footsteps slap behind me, making them look over. Livvy's eyes go wide, her mouth dropping open as she takes in the sight of Wood and I coming out together.

Noah's expression doesn't change, unreadable. But he's looking. He's definitely seeing this.

My cheeks go hot, and I pull the shirt down even more.

"Morning, fam!" Wood booms as he comes up behind me and snakes a hand around my waist.

We didn't talk about touching.

Then he pulls me against his side, and I yelp, quickly trying to cover it up with a giggle. I almost touch a chiseled ab as I'm trying to steady myself. I yank my hand away, giggling harder. Where do I put my hands?

How did I get here, pressed up against Wood's ridiculously tanned, chiseled, bare chest? What have I gotten myself into?

"Relax," he whispers, his breath tickling the shell of my ear.

"I'm trying," I grit through my teeth.

He squeezes my hip.

We didn't talk about touching. Not that I hate it—we just didn't talk about it.

Spencer never touched me like this in front of people. He wasn't into public displays of affection. He didn't do much in private, either, now that I think of it. He just isn't a touchy feely guy, I guess.

I hate the fact I still think about him all the time. I hate that I wasted so many years with him. I hate that he still has a hold over me.

Why doesn't he want to be with me? Why wasn't I good enough?

"Mace?"

I glance up. Wood must have asked me something and I missed it.

"Huh?"

He smiles, unbothered. "Can I get you something to eat?" he asks.

"Oh. Right. Um, yeah, sure." I already had the banana this morning while we were waiting to make our "entrance" since Noah and Livvy tend to sleep in later. I was surprised how early Wood was up, considering he's unemployed.

"Distracted?" he asks.

I nod.

"Still thinking about last night?" He winks as he goes to get a mug down.

Heat returns to my face.

While his back is turned, Livvy catches my attention and mouths "Oh, my god!" as she gives me a big smile and thumbs up.

I smile back, cheeks burning.

Is this it? Is this all we have to do for people to believe we hooked up? No questions? No skeptical looks? Maybe Wood sleeps with enough women that it's believable he'd slum it every once in a while. We can't all be nines and tens.

Maybe they think he felt sorry for me.

That makes the most sense.

I eat my yogurt quietly while Wood sings "Let's Hear it for the Boy" while he scrambles eggs. I'm thankful he does the bulk of the talking.

When I'm done I excuse myself up to the loft to go get dressed. My suitcase is sitting there, at the top of the stairs, all packed for the week of Bex's wedding activities. She sent the itinerary last week. I double-check everything again—all the outfits, dresses, swimsuit, workout gear, my toiletries, my medical supplies, plus extras, and oh—almost forgot—my Garfield sleep shirt.

Today's the day. The ferry leaves at two o'clock, and we'll be on the way to Spencer's family's place for a week of celebrating love. I can't figure out if the queasiness in my stomach is from the thought of the boat ride or seeing Spencer for the first time since the breakup.

I thought after six years, he'd at least call or text me after. But there's been nothing.

I lug the heavy suitcase down the metal steps, having gotten into comfortable jeans and a loose-fitting tank top.

"Let me get that for you!" Wood leaps and runs up the stairs to snag the suitcase from me.

"I've got it."

He leans in, hand over mine on the handle. "I know you do, but do you think I'd let my girl carry her own luggage?"

Oh.

He nudges me with his elbow and another lopsided grin. "I've got you, girl." Then he takes my suitcase and carries it down the stairs as if it weighs next to nothing, and I am not staring at the way his back muscles move.

I'm not! I can't help that he hasn't put a shirt on yet.

Noah and Livvy come out a few minutes later with their bags.

"Ferry's at two, right? Should we get going?" Livvy asks, checking her phone.

"Give me five minutes. I'm almost ready," Wood calls as he heads for his room.

Livvy scrunches her face, and Noah tilts his head in confusion when Wood emerges with a bright red duffle bag over his shoulder. Also, wearing a shirt. Finally.

"Wood, you can't just invite yourself along to everything," Noah says in his deep voice.

"Yeah, the pre-wedding activities are for family and the bridal party and their plus ones only," Livvy says with a grimace.

"Yeah, I know!" Wood is unfazed.

They stand quiet.

"He's my plus one," I squeak.

Livvy's eyebrows shoot up.

Wood smiles wide, his blue eyes lit up. "Yeah, I am." He comes over to stand by me, giving me a look that can only be described as adoration, and I don't know how he's such an amazing actor.

He carries my suitcase to the car he arranged to drive us to the pier and then carries it again all the way to the ferry.

Livvy and Noah sit on a bench, arms around each other, oblivious of everyone around them, and I go to the front to lean on the railing overlooking the shimmery plain of water. The sky is a bright cloudless blue. The August sun is hot, cut slightly by a breeze coming over the bay. And to the left is the Seattle skyline.

Wood comes up behind me and soon enough, we start moving across the water. Toward this week of fun. (That was sarcasm.)

About five minutes in, my head feels a little dizzy, but I focus out on the horizon. It helps.

"You okay?" Wood asks in a low tone.

"Yeah, I'm good." I put on a smile, but his furrowed brow says he doesn't quite buy it.

I don't want to tell him I get a little seasick. It's silly. Besides, the ferry is big and steady enough—it's not nearly as bad as it can get. No one needs to know. It's only a thirty-five-minute ride across Elliot Bay to Bainbridge Island. I can handle it. I get enough sympathy and worried looks from people who know I have diabetes. I'm fine.

Yet, when he puts his hand on my lower back, his body warm at my side, and says, "Don't worry, I'll be next to you all week. It's all going to be good," I am comforted in a strange way.

It's weird, walking up to Spencer's family house. For the first time, I'm not here as Spencer's girlfriend. I'm not here as a potential future daughter-in-law. I'm an outsider. I don't belong.

Maybe I never did. I don't know.

The house sits on a sprawling four acres of perfectly manicured lawns and lush gardens of lavender and hydrangea bushes filled with giant white bunches of blooms. It has two private docks, a boathouse, a pool house, and a guest house. The main house is a three-story white brick colonial with multi-tiered decks and balconies out the back.

"Jesus Christ," Noah mutters under his breath. He looks the most out of place here, wearing all black, covered in tattoos.

Wood, at least, looks the part in a light blue collared shirt and tan slacks. I'm so used to seeing him in T-shirts and sweats—jeans if he's out—I almost forgot he isn't acting a part. He grew up this way, too. He's used to private yachts and skiing in Aspen and housekeepers. His sunglasses, casually clipped to his shirt collar, probably cost as much as a year's supply of my insulin.

I don't know if it makes me more grateful he's here with me, or feel even more out of place.

The front doors open as we pass the fountains. Two people in white dress shirts, black vests, and bowties greet us with champagne. Inside, there are more servers with trays of smoked salmon crostini with garlic and herb aioli.

The circular entry, surrounded by a grand, curved staircase, is filled with a six-foot-tall flower arrangement in the center—all various shades of white to peach to blush pink. Gilded letters are nestled in between the blooms: J & B.

"Ms. Bishop and guest," a woman in a vest says to Livvy, right this way. Livvy and Noah follow her toward the left.

"Ms. Greene." An older vested man appears out of nowhere. "You'll be staying upstairs in the east wing of the home. Follow me." He stops abruptly halfway up the steps and eyes Wood behind me. "You brought a guest." It's not a question.

"Uh, yes. It was kind of last minute. Sorry."

Cheese and crackers.

He glances back slowly from Wood to me. "We've only prepared the room for one guest, but it is not a problem. I'll make sure extra linens, towels, and toiletries are brought up while you're out enjoying the cocktail hour."

Double cheese and crackers. I meant to call Bex and tell her, but I've been so caught up, and honestly, not sure if I'd be able to lie to her convincingly enough. She's been my best friend since freshman year of college—almost eight years. I never lie to her.

We follow the man up the wood stairs lined with a thick, oriental runner in shades of rich reds and gold and black around to the far end of the house, Wood still insisting on carrying both of our bags.

My heart lurches in my chest as he takes us right to Spencer's room—at least, it was when he lived here.

No, no, no.

He stops at Spencer's door. "And here are your accommodations." Then he steps forward and opens the door directly next to Spencer's room.

Air gushes out of my lungs. Oh thank baby Jesus.

"You have a private ensuite and lovely water views. As I said, we will bring more linens and essentials this evening." He gestures for us to go inside while he waits at the threshold. "My name is Walter. I am in charge of the house and waitstaff for the week. Don't hesitate to ask any of us for anything you may need. We are happy to help you. The evening's festivities begin in approximately three hours. Feel free to roam around the gardens and the main living areas of the house. Mr. and Mrs. Hayes ask that you don't go down their private wing on the main floor, and the pool is closed."

With that, he nods and excuses himself.

"Shall we go roam around the gardens, then?" Wood asks in a faux British accent.

I appreciate the levity, but I can barely even muster a smile. I'm very familiar with the gardens. Over Memorial Day, which also happened to be my birthday this year, when we came here for their barbecue and big celebration for the opening of boat season, Spencer took me for a walk through the rose gardens.

I was sure he was going to propose to me there.

"I think I'm going to lie down and rest for a little while. I have a bit of a headache."

Wood's eyes go wide. "Do you need some pain killers? Water? A snack?"

"I'm okay, really. I just need to lie down."

He puts his hands on his hips. "Mace."

"What?"

"Let me help you. I'm here for you. I'm yours all week."

I'm not really sure what to say to that, but my heart rate speeds up for no reason whatsoever.

"I'm going to go find you something for your head. Lie down, I'll be right back."

The room is nice and airy. The walls are white with minimal décor—there's a landscape oil painting above the bed and a mirror with an intricate wood frame across from the bed, above a dresser. The bed is dark wood with detailed spindles, queen sized with a fluffy white duvet and several white and beige pillows. There are two nightstands that look antique, each with brass lamps, and a velvet chair in the corner in a deep olive green color.

Three large windows with wood grids overlook the lawn, a private, rocky beach lined with quaking aspens, and then the water beyond.

I sink into the bed. What am I doing?

When I wake up, Wood isn't in the room, but the nightstand has a tall glass of water, three different bottles of pain killers, two granola bars—the chocolate chip ones I like, and an entire fruit basket.

I glance at the time and—oh boy—I need to get ready.

My black dress is simple, form-hugging. I never know what to do with my hair, so I put in a little styling mousse to tame the curls and pin it back. I attempt a black wing liner and fail. So, I wipe it off and just put on mascara and lip gloss. My cheeks are already rosy from being flustered so I skip the blush.

On the dresser is a framed itinerary for the week:

Next to the itinerary is a little note from Bex thanking me for being her maid of honor and saying how happy she is that I'm here to share her special day.

I haven't been much of a maid of honor, to be honest. She's been busy with wedding plans, and I've been wallowing in my breakup the last two weeks.

She assured me that Jake's family and the wedding coordinator they hired were doing the bulk of the legwork and not to worry about helping with the planning, but I think she's been afraid I'll burst into tears if she mentions the wedding too much.

That assumption isn't wrong.

It's five forty-five, and I'm dizzy again. I checked my blood sugar levels, and they're good, so it's not that. It can't still be seasickness.

There's a knock at the door, and my forehead breaks out in a sweat. What if it's Spencer?

"Mace, can I come in?" Wood says from the hall.

Oh. "Uh, yeah."

The door clicks open, and he steps in. He's changed, now wearing light gray slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his tanned forearms. The top button is undone casually, and his dark blond hair is tousled back in an effortless sort of way that only highlights his perfect bone structure.

No one should look this good. It's frustrating.

And no one is going to believe we're together. It's ridiculous. And everyone's going to know. And Spencer will think I'm pathetic and be so happy he dodged such an embarrassing bullet and broke up with me.

The room is spinning, and my face is wet, and now I'm on the floor. How did I end up on the floor?

"Macy! Mace, you okay?" Wood's arms are around me as he lifts me off the floor and sits me on the bed.

I look up at him as he starts to move in. "No, don't come near me! I don't want to ruin your shirt." Again.

He tilts his head, lips parting just enough to show a hint of white teeth. "I have more shirts."

"No. You shouldn't wear white shirts around me. I'm a mess." I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, tears streaked down my cheeks. "And now I'm going to make us late. I'm sorry." This realization makes more tears come.

"Mace—" Wood cups my shoulder and looks me square in my crying, messy face. "I don't care if we're late. We get there when we get there. Take as much time as you need."

I nod, not knowing what to say. If I made us late for anything, Spencer wouldn't have let me hear the end of it.

In the bathroom, I dab my cheeks, wipe under my eyes, and refresh my makeup. Then I go back out to Wood, who's waiting in the chair, on his phone, not a care in the world. All easy-breezy-beautiful-Cover-Girling it.

He looks up, putting his phone away as he stands. "Feeling better?"

I nod. I'm not.

"Are you ready?"

Again, I nod. I'm not.

He squints. "You sure?"

"Uh-huh." But I'm shaking my head this time. "I don't think I can do this."

"Do what?"

"This. All of this. I don't know what I'm supposed to say to his family. How I'm supposed to act. I'm going to see him for the first time since—" I take a deep breath, but it's too shallow. The room is starting to get spinny again.

Then Wood's right there again. His blue eyes calm. The room isn't spinny anymore.

"I'll do all the talking if you need me to. You want me to steer us clear of Spencer? Done. And if you want out of a conversation or situation, just squeeze my hand twice real quick, just like this"—he squeezes my hand in quick succession—"and I'll get you out of there."

"Okay." My heart's still racing. "But I don't know if— I'm not sure if I can be convincing about—" I gesture between us. "This. Us. The pretending."

He leans in. "Don't think of it like we're pretending, then."