Otherwise Engaged: A Fake Engagement Romance

Security was a most unpleasant experience.

While Bennett sailed right through without so much as a second glance, I had the honor of being ‘randomly selected’ for additional screening. The TSA agent scoured every inch of both of my bags, swabbed every cosmetic item I owned, and emptied my suitcase all over the conveyor belt.

Then she went through every single item of clothing I had painstakingly folded, inspecting each one individually in front of everyone else in the security line, including my ‘fiancé,’ who greatly enjoyed the sight of my lacy black La Perla dangling from her fingers.

I mean, seriously. Did I look like a drug trafficker? I didn’t even take generic pharmaceuticals.

After concluding the ordeal with the most invasive pat-down I’d ever received, we made it to Gate 32 safely on schedule. No one else with our group had arrived yet. In fact, no one was at the gate at all, probably because no one valued punctuality these days.

Bennett eyed the vacant rows of seats and raked a hand through his wavy chestnut hair, heaving a long-suffering sigh. If I made him sit here and wait for the remaining two-and-a-half hours, I’d never hear the end of it.

And maybe he had a point.

Besides, eating breakfast at a sit-down restaurant would surely be better than scrounging up something greasy from the food court. My change of heart had nothing to do with the way his face fell a little when I shot down his drink idea.

It definitely wasn’t because of the attraction between us that was building by the minute, either.

Fine. That was a lie. A dangerous, delicious lie.

Just like us.

“You know what?” I said, turning to face him. “Let’s go get that drink.”

Bennett broke into a heart-stopping grin. “Really?”

“Just as long as they serve food, too. I don’t want to end up wasted before ten.”

In truth, the effect his smile had on me was a lot scarier than the idea of flying.

ASIDE FROM THE lone server who greeted us at the front, the lounge side of the chain restaurant was completely deserted. Top-40 music played in the background and neon signs boasting catchphrases blinked forlornly along the walls. It was a stark contrast from the rest of the bustling airport terminal, and I couldn’t decide whether the solitude was comforting or depressing.

We walked around the L-shaped bar lined with empty stools, selecting a tall table by the window overlooking the tarmac. Bennett pulled out a metal chair for me before sliding into the one beside it. His knee brushed against mine, but neither of us pulled away. In the chill of the air conditioning, the warmth radiating off his body wasn’t entirely unwelcome, not that I’d ever admit that out loud.

“Have you noticed that no one else is in here?” I asked quietly.

Bennett shrugged, grabbing two drink menus and handing one to me. “So?” His blue dress shirt was rolled up to reveal his muscular forearms, drawing my eye to them. Since when did I have a thing for forearms? It was new, but it was definitely a thing. I immediately averted my eyes, biting the inside of my cheek.

I tipped my head, leaning closer. “Does that make us alcoholics? Are we the only two lushes in this entire airport?”

“Those other travelers aren’t doing it right,” he said. “Morning cocktails are practically a requirement.”

After settling on our orders, we watched the planes taxi to and from the gate, making idle small talk about Mexico and previous times we’d each traveled there. After our angsty make out session in my front entry the other night, I’d expected things between us to be strained when Bennett picked me up for the airport this morning. To my surprise, they weren’t. Spending time with him alone was almost like picking up where we’d left off ten years ago. But with the way things suddenly soured between us back then, I wasn’t convinced that was a good thing.

As the only patrons seated in the restaurant lounge, we didn’t receive a lot of attention from our server, who was more interested in texting on her phone off in the corner. It took half an hour to place our order, and somehow, two rounds of drinks arrived before our food did. The good news was, one and a half Bloody Marys later, I was no longer afraid to board the plane. The bad news was, I was dangerously close to boarding Bennett instead. Somehow, the distance between our chairs had mysteriously vanished and his cologne was giving me more of a buzz than the alcohol.

Fortunately, we were in public, but it was a bad sign for my self control in the hotel room. Maybe I should make a plan to stay sober for the remainder of the weekend. Too late now, though. I had to get on the plane, and I wasn’t doing it without the help of Xanax or a little liquid courage.

Liquid courage was what I needed to have this conversation, too.

I set down my fork beside the half-eaten vegetable omelet on my plate. “What are we going to do about sleeping arrangements?”

“Why, would you like to set a bedtime?” Bennett cocked a dark brow. “Maybe a curfew as well? Haven’t had one since high school, but I guess I can roll with it.”

“No, wise guy. I mean, where are we going to sleep?” I wasn’t sure if he was deliberately being obtuse or if he was just legitimately dense, as most men tended to be.

His lips quirked. “In the bed, like at home? At least, I assume that’s where you sleep. One can never be sure when it comes to you. There could be some kind of preservation chamber involved.”

“You probably sleep in a coffin.” I bit into my whole wheat toast menacingly, but the undercurrent of giddiness coursing through me made it impossible to keep a straight face.

“Only on weekends.”

“Seriously,” I said. “What if there’s only one bed?”

Bennett placed an arm along the back of his stool and his fingers grazed my bare shoulder. An electric current traveled down my spine, like a circuit had been completed by the contact.

He blinked down at me, his amusement giving way to confusion. “Is this a trick question?”

“You don’t think it will be weird?” Or risky—possibly in more ways than one. I had a feeling he didn’t exactly sleep in flannel pajamas. And neither did I.

“We’ve shared a bed before,” Bennett pointed out, giving me a crooked smile. “Italy trip. Sophomore year.”

I groaned. “Oh, God. You’re not allowed to bring that up.”

“Which part?” He reached over, fluffing my hair, and warmth crept into my cheeks. “The part where you drank so much Sambuca I had to carry you back to the hotel and sneak you into your room so the chaperones wouldn’t catch us? Is that the part you’re referring to? Or the part where I stayed with you because you were sick?”

“All of that,” I mumbled, hiding behind my hands. A quick peek between my fingers confirmed that Bennett was enjoying this little trip down nostalgia lane a lot more than I was. To this day, black liquorice still made my stomach turn.

Plus, not all of my memories involving him were good.

“Or do you mean the next day, when you used me as a pillow for the entire six-hour bus ride to Florence because you were too hungover to function?”

Dropping my hands into my lap, I shot him a look of exasperation. “You’re the one that gave the Sambuca to me.”

“In my defense,” he said, “I was sharing it with you. I did not realize you would be such a lightweight.”

“We were fifteen. What kind of tolerance was I supposed to have?”

Then again, in retrospect, drinking at fifteen wasn’t the brightest idea to begin with. But that’s what happened when you had a bunch of under-supervised, over-allowanced prep school kids on a trip to Europe without their parents. I couldn’t even remember whose idea it was or how we got a hold of the alcohol, but the end result was drinking in the streets, getting yelled at by a shopkeeper for being too noisy, and Millie falling into a fountain.

“Fair enough.” Bennett picked up his beer, draining the last of it. “But ten years later, you’re still a lightweight. Case in point: right now.”

“What? I’m fine.” I waved him off, but the knowing look on his face told me arguing was futile. He wasn’t wrong. Two drinks on a mostly empty stomach had gone straight to my head.

His lips quirked. “Sure thing, tipsy.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t profit off that situation. You guilt-tripped me into repaying you by helping with your English Lit term paper when we got back. It turned into me practically writing the whole thing.”

“Oh, yeah.” He rubbed his jawline, shaded with perfectly groomed stubble. “I got an A+. Pretty sure Mr. Anderson knew something was up, but he never could prove it.”

I took Bennett’s comment about my state of apparent intoxication as a reminder to eat the meal we’d come into the restaurant for, and I picked up my fork again. We lapsed into silence for a few minutes while I finished most of the omelet and all of my toast, and I couldn’t help but realize how the silence wasn’t stifled like it usually was when I was with other people. Much as I tried to fight it, it was comfortable—maybe even easy—to be around Bennett, in a way that made me deeply uneasy.

“That essay talk reminded me that you still owe me a favor,” I said. I’d all but forgotten about it. It was more like an insurance policy, anyway. Something to have in my back pocket. I doubted I’d take him up on it. I couldn’t think of anything I’d even want.

Bennett’s gaze dropped to my ring for a split-second before he caught himself. It wasn’t my intention, but the reminder of our ‘contract’ seemed to dampen his mood.

“Have you decided what it’ll be?”

“Not yet.”

Another hour later, the waitress returned and passed Bennett’s credit card back to him, along with the receipt. He’d slipped it to her while I was in the bathroom because he was sneaky like that. I felt bad that he insisted on paying when this wasn’t meant to be a date.

“Speaking of favors,” he said, slipping his Visa back into his wallet. “I did need to ask you to do something. I mean, another something.”

My stomach did a somersault. Had this entire morning been a nothing but a ploy to get me to let my guard down? What did he want now?

“What’s that?” I asked.

“My mother wants us to come over for brunch in a couple of weeks. Or to throw an engagement brunch for us, rather. Small and intimate supposedly, but you know how mothers get carried away. But I know I only asked you to do all of this for Callaghan. My family wasn’t part of the deal. If you want, I can make up a reason to dodge it…”

“No,” I said quickly. “That’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” His brows drew together.

“You think I’m going to bail on your sick mother? Bennett, come on.”

There were lots of things I could fault him for. A laundry list of items, probably. But his soft spot for his mother wasn’t one of them. With her recent relapse, I knew this had to be a delicate subject for him.

Bennett studied me for a few seconds like he was weighing how to respond.

Finally, he said, “Thanks, Thay.” His throat bobbed and a glimmer of sadness crossed his face, so well-hidden I nearly missed it.

My phone buzzed on the table, screen lighting up with a text from Quinn asking whether we were finished with our meal yet. It was her third such text, but neither Bennett nor I were in a hurry to join the rest of the group. Because of Adam and Millie, obviously. Not because of anything else.

I wrote her back saying service had been painfully slow and we were still finishing our food. It was half-true—service hadn’t exactly been stellar, but we’d been done eating for over half an hour.

“Quinn is getting testy.” I locked my phone and slid it into the side pocket of my bag. “We should get going.”

“Probably should,” Bennett agreed.

He shifted to face me, and his eyes darkened, slowly tracing my face. I froze, feeling uncomfortably seen for reasons I couldn’t even explain. It was like being stripped bare in the middle of the lounge. I wondered if I ever made him feel the same way.

His warm hand landed on my shoulder and slid up to my neck, gently bracketing my jaw. A thousand unspoken words hung between us. My heart faltered for a beat before kickstarting again, rocketing into hyperdrive. Full breaths were no longer an option; I had to settle for tiny sips of air.

Beneath the table, his other hand found mine, fingers intertwining. He tilted his head, leaning in as I met him halfway. Our mouths collided, and my fingers flew to his shirt, holding on like I might lose my balance. He softly plied my mouth open, deepening the kiss. The beer he’d just finished mingled with the taste of him, stoking feelings I had been trying to restrain for weeks.

It was gentle and savoring. Less tongue, less lips, less teeth than the kiss at my place. But somehow it was more. With every sweep of his tongue, time lost all meaning, and I fell deeper and deeper into him.

We pulled apart, and I swallowed, trying to catch my breath.

“Thay?” he murmured, placing another soft kiss against my lips.

“Yeah?”

“They’re paging us over the loudspeaker.”