29. JAKE

Something must be wrong with me.

It's harder than it's ever been before.

Not that I would normally complain, but it's Patel.

She's assured me the lingerie portion of this bridesmaid experience is over, thank fuck. I tell myself it can't get worse than that. It can't. Looking at her in that purple piece had my cock close to busting in my pants, which would be a first for me. Not even as a teenager have I lost control like that. But today—Patel's curves?—

I'm not okay. I'm having regrets. I should leave. This is trouble.

Stop. You need to forget you saw her like that. Now.

At least her sister's schedule moves quickly.

Lunch is at a pizza joint.

Before we can go in, Patel threads her fingers with mine. The touch bolts through me. I have to grit my teeth. As if she notices and is afraid I'll jerk away, the press of her nails dig into my skin.

"Give us a moment," she tells the group. "We'll meet you inside."

"Don't take too long," her sister says, touching her stomach.

As soon as we're alone, she takes back her hand.

She had a nice grip, I hate to admit. It wasn't soft but strong, as if it wouldn't let you down. And what does that have to do with anything?

"Did you read the email I sent you last night?" she asks, eying me down. "About me."

"I did."

"And?"

"And I'll be sure to bring up your peanut butter allergy in my conversations with your family. That should convince them we're soulmates."

"And I'll mention you biked Death Road in Bolivia, though why you'd go on a road with death in its name is beyond me. What made you think that was a good idea?"

My shoulders tense. When I sent her that list of facts, I didn't expect her to ask questions about it. "My dad took me."

"Your dad is an adrenaline junkie?"

"Was."

She blinks.

"He died."

I see her left arm twitch. "Oh. Sorry."

She suddenly looks so uncomfortable that I can't help but laugh. It might be the first time I've done that instead of shutting down a conversation about my dad.

"You are terrible at sympathy," I tell her.

"I can… attempt a hug?"

"No need." Fact is, I don't trust my dick right now. There's no telling what could set it off.

Then, because I might as well find out, I ask, "Is anyone dead in your family?

"Just this creepy uncle who was basically a hundred years old."

"Morbid, Patel."

"It was his time to go. He kept shitting his pants. Literally."

"Question. Does your family get to see this charming side of yours?"

There's a shadow of a wince on her face. "No, they don't know everything about me, but that shouldn't surprise you."

Right. She's referring to my prior judgment on her (lack of) honesty. When she doesn't meet my eyes any longer, my chest squeezes. It doesn't feel like satisfaction but regret.

She walks into the restaurant before I can open the door for her. Inside, her sister launches questions at me over the first round of bread and drinks. You might think that would make me nervous, but it's not hard to redirect the conversation back to the wedding. Her sister is clearly dying to talk about it. As for Patel, she looks more than a little impressed when I deflect another question and get Esha to explain Punjabi bridal traditions to me.

After lunch, we go to another store on Main St.

I hold Patel back. The others have gone in before us already. "What can I expect inside?"

Her eyes flash at me. I expect a sharp-tongued quip. Something like, Got PTSD from the last one, Coleman?

Yes, I fucking do.

Uncharacteristically, she gives me a straight answer.

"My sister loves the part in every rom com where they try on a bunch of clothes. Ever since we've been teenagers, she does this thing of going to the fanciest store around and trying on a bunch of designer clothes. I'm thinking this is the nicest shop here."

Marta's Clothing Mart?

"She might push you to try on clothes, too," Patel says, not looking at me but the store. "If you could, she will… like you more."

She's phrased her request as if she doesn't know whether to count on me or not when it comes to anything that requires effort.

"I can manage that," I answer gruffly. I'm here already. If she needs me to pretend I'm the kind of man who wants to build a relationship with her family, I'll do it. Her believing I won't put in the work chafes me.

We go inside. For the next half-hour, I'm a glorified helper. I grab clothes hung up too high and hold them in my hand. The whole time, Patel and I shoot polite smiles at each other. It's the most sanitized we've been. Our teeth clench with effort.

When her sister finds her a short, summery dress, I watch her hold it up against her body. It's like nothing I've ever seen her wear, but my imagination leaps to fill in the gaps.

"What do you think?" her sister asks me.

"Stunning."

Patel's lips press together.

"With that dress, I'd find it hard to be around her. There would be this feeling."

"Affection?" guesses Esha. "Or lo?—"

"Stop that." Patel drops the dress, so it sags in her arms. "Both of you shut-up."

"She respects me," I tell her sister. "It's a suffocating amount of respect, really."

Too late, I realize that my tone was heavy with sarcasm.

"The straps are nice on you," I add, trying to save the situation.

She runs her fingers along one of them.

"You should buy it," says Esha. Her eyes flick between the two of us, a bit suspiciously, before she turns back to her own shopping.

I see Patel fiddle with the dress. To the untrained eye, she's appreciating the quality of the material. I'm not untrained. I've sat across from her for years. So when her hand flows down and she very subtly reads the price-tag, I see it. The resignation.

"I already have one like this," she claims.

Later, I check the price of the dress myself. It wasn't that expensive, but it felt like it was to her.

That doesn't add up.

All lunch, her sister spoke about her wedding and what everything cost. This wedding week hits six figures. The Patel family is affluent. And Patel does well for herself at work. She has one of the highest commissions, competing only with mine for size. These last two years alone, she's broken office records.

Shopping ends when her sister complains she needs a nap. On the way back to the hotel, my phone buzzes. It's a notification. My whale has landed.

Before I can work up an excuse, Patel lobs me an escape. "Coleman needs to get some work done, but don't worry. We'll see him tomorrow."

I should be glad for the help, but I can't seem to meet her eyes.

Something in my chest squeezes harder.