What Hurts Us: A Small Town Fake Engagement Romance by Gates Maggie

Author:Gates, Maggie
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-09-22T00:00:00+00:00

21

LAYLA

“Text me when you’re done, and I’ll come pick you up,” Cal clipped as he pulled up to the curb in front of a little bar in Hillsborough. I had promised Beth that I’d meet her for drinks after the engagement photos.

I needed to decompress with some seriously overdue girl talk.

I hopped off his Harley and pulled the helmet off, tucking it under my arm. “Beth and I can just grab a cab back to Falls Creek,” I said.

He popped the kickstand and let the bike rest on it. “If your head’s still hurting, just call me. I’ll come get you so you can come straight home rather than stopping by Beth’s first.”

Things had gone from hot and heavy, edging on pornographic, to downright frosty during the engagement photo shoot. Ashley had positively swooned over the photos she was far too excited to cull, while Cal and I avoided touching each other. When we got off the bridge, I told a little white lie about having a headache, hoping it would speed things along. Ashley, being the dear she was, flew through a few more shots of us in an open field, then called it a night.

“I won’t be out too late. I have to work in the morning.”

I glanced at the window of The Tipsy Goat and spotted Beth by the bar. She tipped her chin at me and lifted a hand.

“Okay.” Cal stuffed his hands in his pockets. I wasn’t quite sure what our parting was supposed to entail, but I knew for damn sure a handshake or a fist bump wasn’t it. But it was just Beth. She knew the truth. Then again, Falls Creek was a stone’s throw away. Creekers came into Hillsborough all the time.

The date auction was right around the corner. Cal’s Gran and my aunt were busy as bees, getting all the details finished. We had made it this far without anyone figuring out we weren’t really a couple. Now wasn’t the time to get sloppy.

I leaned in and pecked his lips. “Drive safe.”

The Tipsy Goat was a quaint hole-in-the-wall that featured local beers on tap and a wine selection far too pretentious for their sanitation score. The liquor bottles on the back wall were dusty and, as I watched the bartender dance between taps, mostly untouched.

It was the kind of place where the man-bun, mustache-twirling types liked to debate the merits of IPAs versus Lagers. Possessing hair long enough for a bun but lacking the handlebar mustache, I opted for a bottle of hard cider instead.

“Tell me everything,” Beth demanded when we settled into a corner table that gave us a good view of the other barflies.

“I’m in over my head,” I whined as I took a pull from the slick brown bottle. Evâ—it tasted like rotten apple juice and pee mixed with gutter water. I had exceptional disdain for the pieces of—oh, I hope that was pulp—gelatinous strings stuck to my tongue. My stomach turned.

Beth sipped her wine. She had braved

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