An Unlikely Bride (Lucas & Ava)

“Oh, come on. We were lovers. I know you.” She tugs and places my hand at the small of her back. “If you’re worried about finding someone to marry for the paintings, don’t be. I’m happy to help out.”

“Faye…” I shake my head. “You saw the interviews and Elliot’s tweets, right?”

“Uh-huh. And you know what was funny? Not one of them outright denied it.”

Shit. Faye’s always been smart. That’s how she clawed herself out of poverty and became what she is now.

“We may be exes, but I’m also your friend,” she continues. “I don’t want to see you lose to that bastard. And yes, your dad is a complete bastard. Don’t expect me to apologize for telling the truth.”

Despite myself, I smile. I should just say yes. Marrying Faye would be ideal—she’s smart, beautiful and we’ve known each other long enough that we can lie about how we fell in love to maintain the public façade about the deal.

And it’d knock two items off the objectives list.

But somehow I can’t. My head urges me to commit, but my tongue refuses to cooperate. “Let me think about it,” I manage.

I leave the suite before she can say anything else. My left leg throbs wildly, as though to remind me about the scars. Will Faye be as tender with them as Ava? The kisses…caresses…

My jaw clenches. None of that meant anything to her. I’m the idiot who gave it a significance that didn’t exist.

As the elevator descends to the lobby, I rest the back of my head against the wall. What the he

ll am I doing?

Rejecting Faye isn’t me getting over Ava and moving on. It’s me being stupid and evading the issue.

Don’t let Ava ruin everything.

When the elevator pings open, I cross the lobby and climb inside the waiting limo.

Tomorrow. I will call Faye tomorrow and say yes.

Chapter Twelve

Lucas

“You look like shit.”

I bury my head under the pillow. Blake’s voice sounds like a thousand thunderclaps. Didn’t Geraldine teach him how to use his indoor voice?

“…smell like shit, too.”

“Go away.” I’d rather stay in this lumpy and uncomfortable bed than risk death by getting up.

“Sorry. We have a brunch to attend.”

What the hell? “Nobody eats brunch at the crack of dawn.”

“It’s ten, you idiot.”

There’s a zipping sound by the windows, and light penetrates my eyeballs like a death laser.

“Are you trying to kill me?” I groan.

“It’d serve you right. You drank all my good stuff.”

“Your liquor found it an honor to be drunk.”

“Savored, maybe. Not guzzled until you pass out like a lobotomized fool in the middle of the living room. Now get up.”