Scrutinizing my face in the little square, I try to figure out if it’s been photoshopped. I’m staring blankly at the camera, unsmiling. My hair is down and a bit stringy.
But sure as shit, it’s me.
How did someone get a current picture of me?
Then I notice the material around my neck. It’s light blue with darker blue dots on it. “Is that a hospital gown? I was in the hospital about six months ago. Did someone take my picture there?”
“Yes.” Preston gives me a look I can’t decipher.
It’s not one of his tender stares. He almost looks scared. Or apprehensive. Like he’s… judging me?
I don’t have much—if any—experience with someone else’s expressions. I can’t read him. Whatever his face is doing, I’m not a fan.
“What?” I say defensively, frantically smoothing my braid. “Is my hair being weird?”
“Rosalie, we need to talk about why you were in the hospital,” he states. “Suicide isn’t the answer. No matter how bad it is, there’s another solution. Sometimes being strong and patient is what it takes. If you hang on, at least you’ll have a chance to make your life better. If you die, it won’t get better—it’ll just end. You have to promise me you won’t hurt yourself ever again.”
My mouth is opening and closing like a fish. “I—I didn’t try to kill myself.”
Preston tilts his head like he doesn’t believe me. “You overdosed, baby.”
“Not on purpose.” Humiliation over the whole ordeal comes back full force, and it’s even more embarrassing that Preston, of all people, knows about my misstep. “I was dumb, okay? Yeah, I took some of my mom’s pills, but I didn’t know how much was too much. It was an accident. And why the hell are you looking through my hospital records? Does my privacy mean nothing? That’s—that’s personal, damn it.”
I’m worked up now, my chest expanding with quick breaths.
Placing a calming hand on my shoulder, Preston explains, “The hospitalization happened before I was involved. I only know about it because Ivan told me, and the records labeled you as suicidal. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
Preston’s sincere apology and willingness to concede takes the wind right out of my sails. I’m not used to someone being so… rational. My mother never admits she’s wrong, and she’s never said she’s sorry for anything. Ever.
It’s a totally new experience and strangely validating.
“It’s okay,” I tell Preston as the anger drains out of me. “I know it looks bad, but I really didn’t mean to hurt myself.”
“I believe you.” That’s new, too—someone taking what I say at face value.
I cover Preston’s fingers with mine. “Are all men as good as you?”
“No. Absolutely not, but I’m flattered that you think I’m good.”
“My father—is he good? Does he love me?”
“Rosalie, it’s—he—” Preston’s response is stilted, as if he doesn’t know how to answer. “I would like to think he cares, but I can’t speak for Ivan’s feelings.”
“Am I horrible for leaving without giving him a chance?” I try to put myself in the shoes of a man who just wants to know his daughter. A man who’s paying a buttload to get to me.
“No. He’s a dangerous man who doesn’t just bend the law—he flat out breaks it. Besides, this is your life, right? You can do whatever the hell you want. You call the shots.” Preston affectionately pinches my chin. “Got it, Sarah Jones?”
Nodding, I glance at the ID I’m still holding. “So we’re supposed to be siblings?”
He gives me a wolfish grin. “Husband and wife.”
My eyes go wide before a frown overtakes my mouth. “Oh.”
Preston huffs out a laugh. “Try not to sound so disappointed next time, Mrs. Jones. A man’s ego can only take so much. Here, this might make you feel better.”
Picking up my left hand, he slides a solitaire diamond ring on to my finger. The band is white gold, and the gem sparkles, even in the low lighting.
I hold up my hand to admire my new accessory, but I can’t wipe the forlorn expression from my face. “Is this real?”
“The ring is, but the marriage isn’t, okay?” Preston’s tone is reassuring.
He’s misreading me. I’m not upset because of the temporary identity switch or the fact that we have to pretend to be a couple.
I’m sad because the ring, the marriage, the life we’re pretending to have—it’s something I desperately want, but it’s fake.
Maybe our kiss didn’t mean all that much to him. I mean, I basically threw myself at him. What was he supposed to do? Turn me down? Yeah, right.
He’s probably got a girlfriend somewhere. Or a wife. As I remember the pictures of the girl he sent me when he was posing as Jessa, jealousy burns hot inside me, flaring in my stomach and turning my cheeks red.
“Hey,” Preston says softly, moving his head to catch my stare. “What’s going on?”
“I just don’t like the name,” I fib, feeling the stinging in my nose already. “That’s all.” Sneeze, sneeze.
His eyes narrow. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Sneeze.
“You have allergies or something? I have antihistamines in the trunk with the rest of our stuff.”
“No, I’m fine.” I put a hand on his arm to stop him from getting out of the car. “Really.”
He studies me for a second as if he senses my deceit.
Then, like he can see right through me, his face morphs to a curious expression. “It’s a tell.”
“What?”
“The sneezing. It’s your tell. Do you always sneeze when you lie?”
How the hell did he figure me out so fast?
Instead of denying it, I look at anything but him when I reply, “I’m weird, okay? I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. It’s like an anti-superpower.”
“I think it’s adorable,” he says sincerely, and I turn my head his way. “And kind of handy for me because I’ll always know if you’re not being honest.”
I make a face. “Well, good for you. At least you don’t think I’m possessed.”
A wrinkle appears on his forehead, and his lips quirk up like he thinks I’m messing around. “Like, by a demon?”
Serious, I hold his eyes and nod.
Any remnant of a smile drops from his sexy mouth. “Loralee’s done a number on you. Made you think there’s something wrong with you.”
His conclusion is correct, but I just shrug.
He leans into my space and cups my face with his big hand. “You’re perfect. Do you understand me?” I don’t know about that, so I start to shrug again, but Preston’s fingers tighten against the back of my neck. “I mean it. Say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you’re perfect.”
“But I’m not.”
“You are to me. We’re not getting out of this car until you say it.”
Ugh. Fine. “I’m perfect.” Sneeze. My hand goes up to my nose. “See? Even my body knows I’m not.”