31. REEMA

After finishing face masks, my sister and I met our parents and a few relatives to do last-minute wedding preparations. I kept getting asked the same question again and again. Where is Jake?

Work, I repeated on loop.

That hardly satisfied them, and Serena keeps eyeing me down as if I'm seconds away from confessing the whole thing is a charade. Or bringing out Coleman and ripping his face off.

This man is a doll! I've deceived you all!

Either way, the guilt digs deeper. This wasn't the plan.

Leo was supposed to be my date. We would have gone through the wedding enjoying ourselves, and he'd have gotten to meet my family. Then, a few weeks later, I would have simply told my family that Leo and I were better off as friends. Status quo would be returned. No harm done, since he would still be in my life as a friend. The lying wouldn't feel asdamning in that case.

But Coleman and I staying in each other's lives as friendly "exes"? Might as well put clown makeup on. That will never happen.

God, why did I do this to myself?

Harry.

Right. He's the reason I panic-invited Coleman to be my fake-boyfriend, as if it wouldn't blow up in my face. When will I learn? Am I even capable of being a functioning adult? Current evidence screams no.

Just survive this and it will all come together.

My laptop sits by my feet. I tried accessing client files, but Mr.Davies wasn't bluffing. He cut my access to everything. There are no leads I can follow. No clients I can quote. My portfolio hasn't grown since I left.

In a panic, I had called Sally.

She refused to entertain work talk, but after my badgering, had confirmed I was still securely in the lead on the scoreboard. She couldn't see how anyone could catch up to my portfolio.

The bonus is mine. The bonus is mine. The bonus is mine.

That's the mantra I've fallen asleep to every night this last year, but it's not working tonight. I'm tired, swamped, overheated, and every time I close my eyes, I imagine it.

The Lingerie Room Incident, I've spent all day quashing.

For some reason, it's not working now.

No, now, I'm thinking of it and adding my own liberties to it for artistic flair.

He looked at me like he could spend forever doing it. That I was his absolute torture, but also the very possible balm to his desperate need. As if his cord of control was frayed down to the very last thread.

My hands go underneath my baggy t-shirt and press along on the soft planes of my stomach. Hardly twelve hours ago, I was in sexy lace, quivering at the intensity of his reaction. His muscles had stiffened in surprise. There was the rise of that massive bulge…

I yank my hand out of my pants.

What the fuck am I doing? Okay, the wetness on my fingers isn't subtle. Clearly, I know what I'm doing. But thinking of Coleman? Clearly, I'm repressed and so bottled up with stress that anyone or anything will do!

I bring my hand back inside my pants, shut my eyes, and shuffle through better material. Let's imagine a Viking with his battle axe. Some sort of after-battle-ravish-me-on-the-grounds-of-his-hut situation.

I rub small circles around myself.

It's not quite working, so I go faster.

That's not helping. If anything, I'm drying up.

The Viking grins down at me and smirks. A very familiar, arrogant smirk. Blue eyes turn into green?—

My eyes pop open. I'm swearing. Isn't this great? I can't even do a quick self-fuck now! My situation has truly deteriorated. And since when has Viking Man not done it for me? His big swinging axe—both the literal and metaphorical one—used to be a paragon of my male fantasies! But no?—

My eyes close shut. Obviously, I'm afflicted by some condition. I need help. I need medicine. I need to go to the bathroom and clean myself up.

I do, because if I finish to the thought of Coleman, I won't be able to look him in the eye tomorrow.

With nothing else to do, and since sleep feels impossible, I return to bed and open my laptop again. If I can't work, and if I can't close my eyes without being bombarded by his fucking face, then I need to find something practical to do.

My email inbox is open. I go into the History folder and find the one I sent him last night. A list of facts and interests, because knowing I'm flat-footed and that I like thunderstorms is going to save this mess I'm in.

So far, there's nothing real or personal I've shared with him. Logically, I know he needs to learn more for us to be a believable couple.

I start typing.

You probably don't know that I was married once and am now divorced. It's not shocking. Fifty percent of marriages end in divorce, so there's no point in judging me. Not that I care if you judge me.

Though, since you're not one to keep your opinions of me subtle, I bet you think the divorce was my fault. Something about working too hard. Don't worry. You wouldn't be alone in thinking that way.

I did work too hard at being married to a gambler. And in doing so, I became a gambler myself in a way?—

I stop typing mid-sentence, coming back to reality.

What am I doing?

Might as well title this email Dear Diary.

The thought of Coleman learning about my past is mortifying. What would he think of me? I don't want to find out. I don't want anyone to find out. Not when I'm privately trying to get everything back under control.

I delete the email.

Opening a new one, I type another list.

On the spectrum of grossly personal and the sky is blue, this one lands somewhere in the middle.

After sending it, I wait for a response, but I don't get one.

Almost as if he is preoccupied doing something else.