Fake Dating 22

 

CHAPTER 22 

LIAM 

“The people in the bushes would probably find it weird if we don’t go on the Ferris wheel, huh?” I say, keeping my voice light. 

Emilia hums, subtly glancing over her shoulder, but it’s obvious enough. 

So she didn’t notice them before. 

Her frown deepens, but she shrugs. “Well, I live to disappoint expectations.” 

I bark out a laugh. Of course she does. 

For a second, I reach for her hand. But at the last moment, I change course and grab her wrist instead. 

She’s been avoiding holding my hand all day. Not outright, just small things like pretending to adjust her bag, tucking her hair behind her ear, reaching for her phone. 

At first, I thought it’s the whole out of sight, out of mind thing. 

If she doesn’t hold my hand, maybe she can pretend these last two weeks didn’t happen. Maybe she can even pretend that I was there. I didn’t have the right to feel weird about it. 

At the restaurant, I caught a glimpse of her arm. 

The scratches weren’t obvious at first, not against her light brown skin, but once I noticed them, I couldn’t unsee them. Angry, red lines running along her forearm. They look fresh, so I’m certain they’re recent and they don’t exact- ly look like injuries she could have gotten from scratching her arm against the wall. 

And then there was the bandaid on her palm. 

It wasn’t big, but it was there. A quiet sign that something had happened. Something she wasn’t talking about. 

I didn’t get a close enough look to see how bad it really was. But now that I’ve seen it, the thought won’t leave my head. 

I don’t expect her to tell me if anything happened, but sometimes I have to stop myself from asking if she’s okay. I tighten my jaw. 

Did someone hurt her? 

What if it’s from someone who’s been stalking her since the news broke out? For some reason, the thought makes my blood boil from anger. 

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We don’t owe each other anything beyond what’s in the contract. But still, somehow, I’ve ended up lightly breaching 

it too. 

And God, I might even be the reason she’s hurt. 

She’s already said her piece. She thinks I’m an asshole. And yeah, it stings, but it basically sums up how I treated her these past few weeks, and honestly, I thought she was too soft-spoken to voice it out. 

It throws me off. 

She used to shrink herself, like she was afraid of taking up space. Now? Now she walks like she belongs wherever she stands. Like she’s done waiting for permission. 

I don’t know when it happened-when she stopped dimming herself for the sake of others. But I can’t deny that it 

suits her. 

She’s always been pretty, but before, it was almost like she didn’t want anyone to notice. Now, she’s not hiding. And it makes her impossible to ignore. 

I realize I’m staring when she suddenly turns to me, her brow slightly raised. 

“What?” she asks, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. When she lifts her hand, I see the bandaid again and a long lines of scratches on her arm and I have to force my jaw to loosen up. 

I shake my head, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Nothing.” 

She hums like she doesn’t believe me but doesn’t push it. 

I feel bad for not even making a single post about the people harassing her. But if I had to do it all over again? I would. 

If it gives her even a little peace of mind, I wouldn’t mind disrupting Emilia’s. It’s a messed-up thought, but it’s the 

truth. 

Before I can say anything, she steps forward, slipping her wrist from my grasp. For a second, I think she’s about to walk away. Instead, she grabs my sleeve and tugs me forward. 

“Come on.” 

I let her pull me across the park. It’s funny, I realise-we’ve fallen into some kind of habit. She leads. I follow. 

I’ve spent all day doing nothing but taking out my card and indulging her fun and surprisingly.. I don’t feel uncom- fortable or like some kind of walking wallet. Contrary to what I said earlier, I don’t even feel like she’s extorting me. 

It’s crazy to say, but I don’t mind it. Not even a little bit. 

A few minutes later, we stop in front of a vintage photo booth tucked beneath a string of fairy lights. One of those old-school ones that spits out a strip of four pictures. 

Emilia yanks back the curtain and slides onto the tiny bench inside, patting the seat beside her. 

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I raise an eyebrow. “This is your grand alternative to the Ferris wheel?” 

She shrugs. “If they want pictures, we might as well pick the ones they get.” 

I huff a laugh. Yeah, right. No one outside is getting these pictures. 

Still, I duck inside anyway, letting the curtain swing shut behind me. The space is small-our knees bump, and for a split second, I feel her tense before she forces herself to relax. 

Then, to my surprise, she digs into her purse and slides some coins into the slot. 

She catches me watching and shoves my shoulder. Hard. 

The booth is tiny, so I slam right into the edge. It stings. I rub my side, biting back a groan. 

“Do you think I’m broke or something?” she huffs. 

I hold up my hands in surrender. “I didn’t even say anything.” 

The screen in front of us lights up, displaying a countdown. 

3… 2… 1… 

The camera flashes, and neither of us is ready. I’m caught mid-blink, and Emilia’s eyes are wide like she wasn’t ex- pecting the picture to be taken so soon. 

I glance at her, expecting her to groan about it, but she just laughs, leaning into my 

The next countdown starts. 

3… 2… 1… 

side. 

This time, she smirks and throws up a peace sign. I match her pose at the last second. 

Another flash. 

She turns to me before the next one, grinning. “Do something fun.” 

I raise an eyebrow. “Fun?” 

She doesn’t give me time to think. On the next flash, she scrunches her nose and sticks her tongue out at me. 

I don’t even realise I’m smiling until the camera captures it. 

Last photo. 

I don’t know what comes over me, but at the last second, I lift my hand and flick her forehead. 

“Ow!” She glares at me, but the booth has already flashed. 

Emilia pulls the strip from the slot and holds it up to the light. The moment she sees the first picture, she bursts into laughter. 

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“Oh my God.” She turns it toward me, and I groan. 

The first photo is awful. I’m mid-blink, looking half-asleep, and Emilia looks like she’s just seen a ghost-eyes wide, mouth slightly open. 

“This is tragic,” I mutter. 

“No, this is art.” She grins, clearly way too amused. 

She moves on to the second one. This one isn’t as bad. We’re both doing peace signs, looking like two kids at a school trip. 

I shrug. “Not terrible.” 

Emilia nods in approval. “We look normal. For once.” 

Then comes the third picture. 

She had stuck her tongue out at me, and-I blink, staring. 

I hadn’t realised I was smiling that much. 

She tilts her head, glancing between the picture and my actual face. “You should do that more.” 

I arch a brow. “Stick my tongue out?” 

She shoves my arm. “No, smile.” 

I huff a laugh. “I’m always smiling, love.” Something about the look she shoots me tells me that’s not what she means and I feel my mood dampen a bit at the implication. 

That is, until we glance at the last one-the moment I flicked her forehead. 

It’s hilarious. She’s mid-flinch, eyes squeezed shut, lips pursed like she’s about to scold me, while I look way too pleased with myself. 

Emilia gasps dramatically. “You planned this.” 

I smirk. “I did say fun, didn’t I?” 

She glares but then carefully tucks the strip into her wallet. 

I watch her do it, something I can’t place a finger on tightening in my chest. 

Emilia catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?” 

I shake my head. “Nothing.” 

She hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. 

Instead, she shoves my shoulder-lighter this time-and grins. “Come on, let’s go disappoint expectations.” 

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And just like that, she grabs my sleeve again, leading me back into the park. 

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