But I didn’t.
I just stood in the kitchen in my blue robe and watched the man who had chosen centerpieces with me walk out before the sickness had even reached my face.
I wrote Owen one last message.
Fine.
His reply came:
Tomorrow. 9 a.m. I’ll pick you up.
I frowned.
You don’t know where I live.
The answer came back:
Then send me the address.
For the first time in four days, I made a sound that was almost a laugh.
Not happy.
Not healed.
Just surprised.
That was enough to scare me.
The next morning, Owen Hart stood on my parents’ porch wearing a dark gray coat and holding two coffees.
He looked nothing like his profile picture.
Not worse.
More real.
Taller than I expected.
Unshaven.
Eyes too awake for 9 a.m.
My mother opened the door before I could stop her.
She looked him up and down like he was either a criminal or a miracle.
“Who are you?”
Owen held out one coffee.
“Ma’am, I’m the man your daughter hired to fake-marry her.”
My mother froze.
I closed my eyes.
“Owen.”
He looked past her and saw me on the stairs.
“What? Was I supposed to lie first?”
My mother turned slowly.
“Emily Rose Whitaker.”
read more in next page
