My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

I flinch. “What?” That hurts sharper than a rose thorn stabbing through delicate skin.

He keeps his relaxed posture, but every word is precise. “You are a remarkable woman who attacks life with a passion I have rarely seen. If this Lorenzo holds your interest—a task not to be underestimated—if he is worth you, then you owe it to yourself to meet him halfway. Simply doing nothing is beneath you, Abi. If that’s what he inspires in you, let him go. He deserves . . .” He shakes his head, changing his phrasing. “You deserve someone who inspires you to do anything, everything for them. To fight, to love, to dream, to live.”

He takes Mom’s hand, and they look at each other with all the love they feel bared and pure. They are a lot to live up to, but I won’t settle for less than the example they’ve set.

Could I have that with Lorenzo?

I don’t know. It seems so fast, but I’ve never felt anything close to what I feel when I’m with him. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. And Courtney’s right about one thing . . . we’re unusual people, and I’m an anomaly in a family of weirdos. If there’s one thing I’d be likely to do, it’s fall in love with a near-stranger in one week while doing something crazy like faking already being married.

“All right, so say I was going to do something, what would you suggest?” I ask my family, wanting their input into one of my schemes for the first time.

Ross raises his hand like we’re back in school and wants the teacher to call on him. “I believe I know your partner in crime rather intimately, and she already has some ideas on that. Something about salad tongs this weekend?”

“So should I hold off on the press release then?” Mom asks with a smile.Chapter 24LorenzoMy phone rings for the third time in a row, and I silence it the same way I have the previous two times. I growl, throwing it on the coffee table in front of me. It lands next to my boot and I have to fight the urge to kick it across the room in frustration.

Why won’t she leave me alone? She’s called nearly every hour on the hour, left dozens of messages, and still keeps trying.

I let my head fall back on the couch I’ve barely moved from since getting home from Avanti days ago. At least I came here, didn’t just keep riding to destinations unknown. And this morning, I managed to ride to the coffee shop I prefer to get a strong brew.

Progress. Or giving up?

I’m not sure.

I take a sip of coffee, noting that for all the enormous effort it took to get, I’ve let it go cold and undrinkable.

There’s a loud knock at the door. I’m too numb to flinch, too empty to care. The phone rings on the table and I sigh in annoyance.

Go away.

“I can hear your phone ringing, Lorenzo, so I know you’re in there. Open up or I’ll bust this door down. You know I will,” she yells out.

The door is thin, making me reasonably certain that she could actually break through it with minimal effort if she put her ass into it with a good kick. Lord knows, she’s hard-willed and stubborn enough to try.

I get up and cross the small room before she has a chance to hurt herself. But I only open the door a few inches, just enough to stand in the tight opening. “What?” I snarl.

“Way to greet the person who’s going to fix your fuck-up, asshole,” Violet snarls right back. Hell, if anything, hers might be more intimidating than mine.

Not that I’d ever admit that to her.

“I don’t need you to fix anything, Vi. I’m fine.” I’m nowhere near fine. I haven’t slept in days, am basically pumping caffeine and whiskey through my veins, and haven’t cooked anything in days. The Chinese food delivery guy has basically been my only visitor.

Violet scoffs. “Really? Because I can smell you from here, you look like shit, and Abi isn’t doing much better.”

The mere mention of her name weakens my resolve exponentially, and I lose my grip on the door. Violet instantly takes advantage, likely having plotted that from the get-go. She bursts through the door and into my small apartment.

I sense her looking around at my place but can’t give a shit about what she thinks of it. It’s temporary, anyway. My homes always are.

“What’s wrong with Abigail?” I demand. Of everything Violet said, that’s what sticks out.

Violet’s heels click across the floor and she daintily picks up a dirty T-shirt from where I threw it yesterday. Or was it the day before? I don’t even know. She sits down on the arm of the couch, crossing her legs and looking as casual as can be now that she’s past the threshold of the door.