Best Fake Fiance (Loveless Brothers 2)

A week later, he moved back in with his mom. A week after that, he brought Rusty home for the first time, and within three months, he had sole physical and legal custody.

And now the mother she was taken away from is angling to get her back, and I’m refusing to help him.

Fuck. Fuck.

Fuck.What Priscilla said rattles around my brain as I drive home from the market, even though I try to think about it rationally. I tell myself that there’s no way a judge is going to send Rusty back to a home that CPS took her from in the first place; I tell myself again that they almost always side with the custodial parent; I remind myself about her report cards and the fifth grade reading level and the fractions and all the proof that Daniel’s the best thing for her.

And I remind myself ten thousand times that trying to fix this with a bald-faced lie is stupid and wrong and will never, ever work.

But I still feel bad, a little black storm gathering in my gut.

Would it be such a lie? I think.

Would two months of pretending be so hard, or so bad?

My apartment’s right in town, above Blushing Bonnie’s Bridal Boutique, which is a lot of name. There’s a small lot right behind it, and as I park there, I realize someone’s sitting on the steps leading up to my place.

Before I get out of the car, I look at my phone. There are so many missed calls and texts that I can’t even scroll through them all. I shut my phone off again, guiltily, without answering a single one of them.

That’s probably why someone’s lurking at my apartment. I glance up at them.

In the fading light, I can just make out a head full of curls.

“There you are,” Elizabeth says as I tromp up the wooden steps, carrying a grocery bag in each hand.

“Were you sent?” I ask.

“I’m here of my own free will,” she says, neatly putting her phone in her purse. “Though Mom and Dad were very relieved when I said I’d come over. You don’t have the reusable bags?”

I look down at the plastic grocery bags in each hand and feel guilty. That seems to be today’s big mood.

“I forgot them,” I admit.

“Keep them in your trunk,” Elizabeth says, like it’s just that easy.

“Then I use them and have to remember to put them back in my trunk.”

“Keep them by the front door.”

“Are we going to play this game all night or are you going to move so I can go inside?” I ask.

Elizabeth rolls her eyes but stands and lets me pass, then follows me into my apartment. I put the groceries down in my small kitchen, put the yogurt and milk into the fridge, decide everything else can wait until I feel like dealing with it, and grab a beer.

“You want one?” I ask, holding it up so Elizabeth can see it.

“Sure,” she says, leaning against my kitchen table.

I grab another, get the tops off, and hand her one. She looks at the label before taking a swig.

They’re both Loveless Brewing Sprucevale Ale. Daniel brought some over last week and these two were still in the fridge.

“Mhm,” Elizabeth says to the beer label, like it’s confirming all her suspicions.

We both drink.

And then she gives me that older sister look, eyebrows raised, lips slightly pursed, that says I know everything you’ve ever done and everything you’ll ever consider doing, so don’t even bother fucking with me.

I hate that look.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” she says.

I clear my throat, because I still haven’t exactly figured out what to do about that yet. Am I telling people we’re engaged? Am I lying to everyone? Am I leaving Daniel to fend for himself and maybe leaving Rusty for the wolves?

I could kill him. I really could.

“Thank you,” I finally say.

“I didn’t actually congratulate you,” she points out.

“Then un-thank you.”

“Because it did seem strange that you’d go from being completely platonic friends with someone to being engaged to them without so much as a hint to your family and in particular, your sister,” she says, pointedly.

I sigh, head into my living room, and drink some more. Elizabeth follows me.

“The same sister,” she goes on, following me, “Who has never told anyone one of your secrets in her entire life. Your sister who knows that you borrowed Mom’s tennis bracelet once and then lost it, and never ever told on you. Your sister who covered for you constantly when you were sixteen and dating Steve Fisher, even though Mom and Dad explicitly forbade you from seeing him. Your sister who bought you booze when you were underage, who taught you which concealer was the best for covering hickeys, who—”

“Okay!” I say, flopping onto my couch. “I get it, Betsy.”