Page 10 of Not You Again
“Was he a coworker or a roommate or—?”
“We dated.” Kit says it calmly, matter of fact, slipping his hands into his pockets. “In college. Only for a couple months. Ancient history.”
My jaw drops. I can’t believe he just equated our relationship to nothing. As if it hadn’t changed us both. Or maybe that was just me.
“Right, Andie?” He leans forward just enough to feel like he’s looming over me.
My mouth flaps open and closed like a fish. Four-letter words flash through my short-circuiting brain in seventy-two point, sans-serif font. Underlined. In bold.
“Right.” I force my lips to curl into a smile. “Old news. Practically strangers anymore.”
Kit’s mouth tilts in a half grin, brutal in its familiarity.
Heart in my throat, I look at the producer in the middle of the semicircle. “Is that going to be a problem?”
We signed the papers. A prenup and an NDA. The marriage license and the contract with the network; the phrase Heidi mentioned was there, sure enough. They wouldn’t make it all null and void right now, would they?
The producer—tall and blond—smiles and shakes her head. “This is unexpected, but I think it will make for great television. Luke and Mia had met before last season, and fans loved them. We’ll work on the storyline.”
Great. The fear of losing my shot at the money evaporates, leaving behind a very different kind of discomfort. Instead of being released from the show, they’ll use the second-chance angle to paint some story of finding our first love again.
My stomach lurches at the idea. I curl my fingers against the lace on my bodice, trying to stop my spiraling thoughts. Kit just made this infinitely harder.
We’re both in this now. The only way out is through. Eight weeks. I can do this.
I could use some bourbon right about now. Why doesn’t this damn dress have pockets?
“Still in, sweetheart?” Kit plants a hand on the tree trunk next to me, settling into a perfect lean.
I take a deep breath. “Why not? The matchmakers saw something here, didn’t they?”
“They must have,” he murmurs to the ground. I take a moment to study him. Time has treated him well—it really is unfair. He’s always been an attractive man, but I’ve never seen him in a suit. His body has filled out, no longer lean and wiry. His tux stretches across his broad shoulders, strong enough to carry whatever is weighing him down. His brown hair is shorter, and he has a tiny streak of gray at his right temple. When did that happen?
He looks up, and my eyes dart away like I wasn’t just drinking him in. “I’m in Atlanta because I work for an international resort company,” he says, answering my question from earlier. “I’m here to supervise the construction of a new property.”
“The Colonnade?”
He nods to confirm it. “That’s the one.”
I whisper a curse into the breeze that blows through. That resort is going to be one of the hottest new wedding spots in town. Which means I’ll be there, looking at the walls, knowing he had a part in them. Heidi showed me drawings of the domed hothouse they’re building, so they can host luxurious garden weddings year-round, no longer beholden to the weather. I stared at the drawing in rapt wonder—the geometry was as beautiful as it was functional. I immediately sat down to sketch a dress inspired by it.
The lump in my throat becomes impossible to ignore as it hits me: Kit designed the dome. I should have known it was his.
There’s no escaping him. There never has been.
And now we’re bound together in a legal marriage for the next eight weeks. With cameras following us everywhere.
His gentle question invades my thoughts. “It’s hot out here; do you want to go back inside?”
I hate the way he asked that question. The way it feels like an intimate inquiry, like he has access to every dark corner of my soul. He doesn’t know me now, and he doesn’t deserve to. Steeling myself, I push off the trunk of the oak and give him a mocking, saccharine smile. “Sounds great. I’m parched.”
His wedding ring glints in the sunlight as he drags a hand through his hair, leaving the style off kilter when he lets go. He pushes off the tree and holds an arm out for me to take.
I offer him a perfunctory nod and straighten my skirts. This man will not see me look a mess. When I slip my arm in his, I mutter, “I can walk fine on my own, thank you.”
His jaw clenches, tension making itself known across his brow. “Yes, but what kind of man would I be to walk away from the supposed love of my life?”
I trip over my skirt, and he catches me, making sure I’m steady on my feet. I refuse to look at him as we stroll back to the building, bracing myself to dance and take wedding photos, like nothing is amiss.