Why would I want a woman who probably had fake tits and fake orgasms when I’d come here with the most real woman I’d met in a while? Astrid didn’t try to get people to like her. She didn’t try to make herself beautiful. She just was. Maybe that was what drew me to her. No, it was definitely her perfect tits, but I was here because of her. Because I wanted to see her smile. I wanted to make her blush. I wanted to know what color her panties were. I wanted her to show me. I wouldn’t take. I wanted her to give. That meant I had to give too, which was fucking hard.

It meant putting myself out there. Committing, even for a short time, which I didn’t do. Except with Astrid, I wanted to be there for her. I wanted to be the guy she looked for across the room. The one who she told her secrets. Who let me see how fucking dysfunctional her family was.

Charles guided me toward the other men—Bunky and Eddie included—and I tossed back what was left of my whiskey. He slapped Bunky on the back. “Thomas, impressed you pulled yourself from the casino. Win that cash back yet?”

Bunky blanched and took a big swig of his drink.

“Bunky,” I said as greeting.

Bunky tipped his chin, then bolted like a rabbit freed from a snare.

I could breathe easier with him trying to avoid me.

While this was forty-eight hours of insanity, that’s all it was. Astrid and I would part ways after the wedding reception. I’d drive her back to The Bend, kiss her cheek—maybe her mouth—and it would be Date Over. Astrid had the fake boyfriend she needed. I was the nice guy who helped out. Miss Turnbuckle would definitely keep me first in line for any great new book.

The next time I did something like this, I’d ask the woman why she needed a fake date. I’d thought Astrid needed one simply to be a buffer for an ex. That she was shy and needed a wingman. But that was bullshit. She wasn’t really shy. Sure, a buffer had definitely been needed, but everyone here thought she was an ugly duckling. Maybe she’d been one, an awkward teenager. Who the hell wasn’t all pimply and weird at fourteen? Looking around, Astrid sure as fuck was a swan. If I was the only one who saw that, fine. We’d be out of here on Sunday.

In the meantime, it was going to be a long night. But I had something to distract me. A reason not to say fuck it and storm out. To keep me from wondering who I should punch first. Something in a pretty shade of green who liked my smiles and melted from my kisses.

10

ASTRID