McGraw Rotunda in the New York Public Library, the faces of attendees rapt and focused wholly on me.
Well, for the most part.
I couldn’t help but note each one that was turned to Amelia, who sat next to Theo in the chairs just off the podium, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her face was turned to me, her smile serene and proud and absolutely lovely.
We’d been married for almost two weeks, and in that time, I’d crushed nearly fifty thousand words. The story had been coming fiercely, swiftly, and with a healthy helping of discussion. Amelia read everything as I went, offering her advice and changes, arguing her points with fire and determination I never would have expected from her when I first met her.
But if I’d learned one thing, it was that Amelia had opinions, and she wasn’t afraid to voice them.
So long as the recipient wasn’t a stranger.
Our days had slipped into a comfortable routine. Write in the mornings. Walk Gus. Edit in the afternoons. Dinner at a hot spot or with Ma and Theo. Evenings spent curled up on the couch, reading together.
Work had become easy. After a year devoid of ideas, the surge of productivity was addictive. Every day, I would write, and she’d sit next to me, editing. When I got stuck, she’d unstick me. When I thought I had everything wrapped in a neat little bow, she’d untie it. And when I had my plot straight, she’d throw a kink in it that would inevitably make it stronger, better, more.
In short, Amelia was magic.
Steven agreed. I’d sent him the first five chapters, sure he’d tell me it was garbage, too romance-driven. Amelia and I had done a lot of work to make sure the plot was more of a driving force to the romance, but the romance was strong. Aislinn and Wynn were fire—complementing each other and challenging each other in a way I found not only refreshing, but familiar.
The metaphor for my relationship with my fake wife was undeniable, the two of us chained together by fate as equally as by choice.
We spent every waking moment together, from our first cup of coffee until we said goodnight. We’d worn side-by-side divots in the couch with our asses. We’d walk Gus through Washington Square after lunch for brainstorming sessions almost every day.
I’d developed a sick habit—one that fed my growing desire to tell her how I felt—of scrolling social every morning, first thing. I’d lie there in bed in the quiet morning and smile at my screen at the photos of us, the articles, the speculation. In Touch had a poll going as to when she’d get pregnant, and Us Weekly had an article devoted to what we should name our fictional child.
I’d been in fake relationships for almost a decade, one after another after another. Most of the time, we hooked up, but it was more out of convenience, safety, and a way to help us sell our affection publicly. Some—like Genevieve—became friends, confidants. But never had I truly opened up, and never had I given myself over.
A few weeks with Amelia, and I was finding the allure of her impossible to resist.
I resented being caged with her at home, the moments when I wanted to touch her and couldn’t. There, I found myself tugging at the restraints, always looking for a reason to show her affection. Being in public with her was so much easier, somehow more real to me. Here, I could show her how I felt without crossing any boundaries. We had agreed to it in advance, consent given, and I took the action without a second thought.
I’d tried in earnest to convince myself that it was the proximity that left me wishing for more. She was safe, honest and kind, innocent and beautiful. Her help was motivated just as much by her compassion as it was for herself, a saint immortalized in the novel I was writing.
Maybe it was that Wynn was falling for Aislinn desperately, fiercely. Maybe art was imitating life. Or maybe life was imitating art.
When I factored it all together, there was only one answer: the way I felt about Amelia went far beyond a business partner.
Most people didn’t want to make out with their business partners.
Beyond that, the stunt had worked. Blackbird was thoroughly pleased with the turn in my image. Book sales were up, and bad press was down. Everyone wanted to know about Amelia, about our relationship, clamoring for photographs and digging for