Page 61 of Enchanted to Meet You

“True,” Imogen sighed, shoving a ridiculous fur-lined bucket hat into my bag’s side pocket—a hat I hadn’t worn since eighth grade and that I would argue was less appropriate for the weather than half the stuff she’d been making fun of me for bringing. “Still. You deserve a fun weekend. You’ve been so stressed lately. Every time I look at you, you look like you’re holding your breath.”

I stared at her, caught completely off guard by the accuracy of the statement.

I wished it could be different. I imagined standing in this exact bedroom, packing a bag for a weekend trip, and being able to tell Imogen the absolute truth. ‘I’m going to the lake with Rhys,’ I would say effortlessly. ‘We’re going to cook terribly and make s’mores by the fire.’ No lies. No cover stories. No frantic text chains with Clementine to coordinate alibis.

It sounded so peaceful. So light.

And then, right on the heels of that peaceful thought, came the sharp, brutal slice of reality.

If the fake relationship ended... there would be no reason to tell Imogen about Rhys at all. Because there would be no Rhys.

When the lie stopped, we stopped.

A sudden, icy pang shot straight through the center of my chest, so sharp and unexpected that I actually took a half-step back, my hand instinctually coming up to rest against my collarbone.

It was ridiculous. It was completely, utterly absurd. Rhys wasn’t mine. He had never been mine.

So why did the thought of the game ending feel less like a relief and more like falling off a cliff?

“Ainsley?” Imogen’s voice broke through the fog. Her brow furrowed as she looked at my face. “Are you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

I blinked rapidly, swallowing hard to force the tightness out of my throat, and plastering a bright, cheerful smile across my face.

“I’m fine!” I said, stepping forward and snatching an old bathrobe she’d just grabbed from my closet before she could attempt to stuff it in my bag. “I’m just realizing that you are trying to smuggle an atrocity from ten years ago into my weekend wardrobe.”

Imogen gasped in mock offense, clutching her hands to her chest. “Excuse you! I made you that bathrobe with my own two hands! You should be grateful for it.”

She’d made it at sewing club in the sixth grade and it really showed.

“I love it,” I promised her, then shoved it back into the deep recesses of my closet where it belonged. “But if you put one more unnecessary item in my bag, I’m going to tell Cole that you still sleep with that stuffed frog on your bed.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she breathed, her eyes widening in horror. “Barnaby is an heirloom!”

“Try me, Imogen.”

She narrowed her eyes at me for a long, silent moment before breaking into a wide, reluctant grin, shaking her head as she backed toward my bedroom door.

“You’re evil,” she declared, leaning against the doorframe. “Pure evil. I hope Clementine makes you eat organic kale chips for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

“I’ll survive,” I laughed softly. I glanced at the clock. “Anyway, I need to get ready for ballet class.”

“And Clem’s picking you up straight from there?” She tsked. I nodded. “Call me when you get to her cottage, okay? Just so I know you didn’t drive into a ditch.”

Once I agreed, she flounced out of my room, leaving me alone with only my guilty thoughts to keep me company.

I pulled my sweatshirt tighter around myself, ducking my head as I jogged across the asphalt of the ballet studio parking lot to Rhys’s idling SUV. My hair was still slicked back in a tight, neat bun, my legs felt like overstretched rubber bands after two hours at the barre, and my shoulders were aching under the strap of my duffel bag and ballet tote.

I pulled the passenger door open and climbed in, immediately enveloped by the familiar smell. Rhys was sitting in the driver’s seat, one hand resting lazily on the top of the steering wheel. He was wearing an oversized black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his hair slightly damp from a shower.

“You’re late, Novak,” he said. “I was thirty seconds away from driving off and leaving you to walk home.”

“Would be hard for me to walk all the way to Carling Beach.” I chucked my duffel bag over the shoulder of my seat. It landed with a soft thump in the back. Rhys shifted the car into drive, smoothly pulling out of the studio lot and onto the main road.

“How are your legs?” he asked, glancing over at me briefly.

“Separated from my body,” I murmured, closing my eyes and letting my head drop back against the headrest. “If you ask me to walk more than five feet tonight, I will collapse.”

“Good thing the cottage has a porch,” he said quietly. “You can sit in a chair and stare at the lake like an eighty-year-old woman.” His eyes darted to my shin covered in the pale pink tights. “And the cut on your leg?”