Miss Belief: A Fake Relationship Romance (The Miss Series Book 3)

I plotted my revenge while trying on swimsuits in the ladies’ lounge. Reid didn’t know it yet, but he was soon to become my beauty treatment guinea pig. Not that getting a facial was high on the torture spectrum, but for a man like Reid, I imagined it would be an uncomfortable, somewhat embarrassing thing to endure. I sighed, wanting to be more grateful, especially since he was dropping thousands on my new wardrobe. But I couldn’t muster gratitude. The price tags made me sick to my stomach. Honestly, though, it wasn’t merely the cost that bothered me. What truly upset me was the realization that my Old Navy meets H&M wardrobe would never be good enough for Reid or his family. The thought weighed heavily, but I had to keep things in perspective. I was his fake girlfriend, and regardless of my feelings for him and the fact our first kiss had rocked my world, I couldn’t ever be anything more.

An hour later I was finally done with the tortuous enterprise. “I have no idea how I’ll fit all of these clothes into my suitcase,” I grumbled as we walked out to the car, both of us laden with bags.

He snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. We need to get you some new luggage.”

I practically hissed at the suggestion. I was hungry, I was grumpy, and I was done.

He chuckled, dropping his stuff in the back of his Land Rover before holding up both hands in surrender. “Relax. I’ll pick something up for you.”

“Fine.” I gritted the words out and got into the passenger side of his vehicle like a petulant child. One who needed chili cheese fries stat.

“What’s your dining pleasure?”

“Fran’s Diner off of Main and Seventh.”

He glanced over, his lips twitching. “You got it.”

We didn’t speak again until we were seated in the retro booth, outfitted with everything down to a mini jukebox on the table. I loved this restaurant and all of the American diner nostalgia.

“How did you find this place?” he asked.

“Chloe and I have been here a few times. It’s American comfort food at its finest.”

“Does that mean you won’t judge when I get the pot roast and mashed potatoes?”

I shook my head. “Nope, just like you won’t judge when I eat an entire platter of chili cheese fries.”

He studied me. “Tonight’s expedition was chili-cheese-fries bad, huh?”

I closed my menu. “Chili-cheese-fries-and-a-chocolate-milkshake bad.”

When the waitress came over, we both rattled off our orders and sat back in our seats to relax. I didn’t like the way he was studying me. It was as if he could read why I’d been so uncomfortable in the fancy department stores.

“I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy shopping.”

Guilt crept up. He’d spent a lot of money, and here I was acting ungrateful. “I’m sorry for being a brat. I appreciate the clothes, I honestly do. But accepting that much money being spent on me is difficult.”

“Why?”

Such a simple question but loaded with a lot more than I wished to discuss. “Well, we’re not really dating, for one.”

He cocked his head to the side. “And if we were, would you have felt more comfortable letting me buy you things?”

“No. If anything, I’d probably hate it more.” At least in our present scenario, I could justify the expense because I was doing him a favor, and he was dressing me for the part.

“Why?”

Why did he push? “I don’t know, okay.”

He shook his head. “I don’t believe you. But if you don’t want to talk about it, just say so.”

He was giving me an easy out. But I’d made him open up about less-than-pleasant topics like his ex. I also felt like I was acting chicken, unwilling to peel a layer back. “I’m not used to receiving gifts.”

“You didn’t get gifts growing up? Christmas? Birthdays?”

Tears threatened to spring to my eyes at the way he asked. Not with judgment, but with genuine kindness. I chose to shake my head instead of verbally responding.

He muttered a curse under his breath, so I had to speak up to amend his perception. “My sister would try. She’d make something or find something. I tried to do the same for her once I was old enough to be creative. After she adopted me when I was fourteen, we had our first Christmas together in this shitty apartment with a sad tree and a single string of lights. We gave each other gifts from the dollar store, and spent the day at the beach. Neither of us had ever been happier.”

He swallowed hard. “How bad was the time in foster care?”

I didn’t talk about it. Ever. Not even to my sister. Especially not to my sister. She’d get this guilty look in her eyes as if it was her fault she hadn’t been able to adopt me until she’d turned eighteen. But Reid was my friend, and considering how much he’d shared with me, it seemed only fair to give him something.

“My foster parents were nice people and lived in a good neighborhood. But being a foster kid in an affluent neighborhood was its own personal hell. Anyhow, as far as foster situations go, mine wasn’t horrible.”

So what if I got punched in the stomach daily by another seventeen-year-old foster kid because, in her words, “your breathing bothers me”? So what if I had to wake up at three o’clock in the morning to take a shower before the two teenage boys were up because otherwise they’d leer and try to cop a feel? So what if the girls at school would make fun of my ill-fitting clothes, and the boys would taunt me mercilessly for not having parents who wanted me. At least it had only been for a few months.

“You’re leaving a lot out, aren’t you?”

I was saved from having to provide an answer when the waitress returned with our food.

Two minutes into my meal, Reid was watching me. “You realize stuffing your face with chili cheese fries doesn’t make the question go away.”

I turned to my milkshake next. “I disagree. And this is off-limits for a fake relationship.”

“There is nothing fake about our friendship. But if you don’t want to talk about it, like I said before, I understand.” He paused, taking a bite of pot roast and making a sound of pleasure which put my entire body on notice.

Right. Friendship. Down, girl. “It’s not easy for me to talk about. My sister doesn’t even know all the details. If I could block the memories, I would. From the stories I’ve heard about foster care, it could’ve been much worse.”

“It can always be worse. The problems others suffer can put things in perspective, but that doesn’t mean what you went through was easy.”