I’m in Brock’s car, on our way out to Grand Lake, up in the mountains. I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s stunningly beautiful up there.

Already, we’re making our way along winding mountain roads with ice-capped peaks in the distance and tall, impenetrable pine forests surrounding us. It’s beautiful.

I spend so much time in the city it’s a great feeling to be able to get away from it all, even if only for one weekend.

“Thanks for agreeing to come to this thing,” Brock says, eyes still fixed on the road ahead. “It’ll go a long way towards convincing my family we’re really together. I really appreciate it. I know it must be awkward for you.”

And he’s right—it is. I very nearly didn’t come at all.

When he asked me, I was shocked. He’s not oblivious enough not to have realized that I’ve been doing my best to limit my interactions with him all week after what happened between us in that New York hotel room.

So when he asked me to come, my first instinct was just to turn him down, tell him to forget about this whole ridiculous fake fiancée situation, and let him deal with the fallout on his own. I don’t owe him any more than that.

But Pete’s back on my case—with a vengeance. I’ve blocked him on all social media, blocked his number, done everything I can to deter him, but he just makes new accounts, buys new burner phones, and I’m pretty sure he’s been hanging around outside my apartment.

The very thought of it sends chills down my spine; he’s not that stable at the best of times, but he’s really taken the craziness up a few notches recently. It’s not yet to the point that I’m fearing for my safety, but I just can’t deal with his bullshit right now.

So a trip up into the mountains to get away from all that crap actually sounded quite good. Maybe if Pete sees that I’ve moved on, truly moved on, it might motivate him to leave me the hell alone.

I mean, yeah, the circumstances surrounding it all are . . . less than ideal. But Brock looked so pleased when I agreed to go with him his face lit up like a kid’s at Christmas. Every time he smiles, it melts my heart, but I know that I need to stay strong. I can’t act on these feelings.

We’ve been driving for a couple hours now in almost total silence, and instead of staring out of the window and drumming my fingers on the dash, I decide to talk to him.

“So what happened with your ex?” I ask.

He looks surprised and glances sideward at me. “Huh?”

“Your ex. You told me before that wedding party that the bride was your ex, right? What happened with her?”

He’s silent for a few moments, debating how much to tell me, probably. “We dated for a couple of years. We were in love, planning to get married, kids, the whole nine yards. And then I came home early from work one day and found her in bed with another guy. My cousin.”

“Ouch,” I say. “That’s kind of . . . well, not kind of, that’s really gross.”

Brock’s eyes remain on the winding road, but his expression is strained as if the memory of the event still haunts him.

“Tell me about it,” he sighs. “Turns out she’d been putting on a front for me the whole relationship. The woman I thought I loved? She didn’t exist at all. The real Rosa was a manipulative liar, willing to do anything to get what she wanted.”

I grimace. “So what did you do? Did you kick his ass?”

He gives me a quick look. “No, I didn’t. He’s my cousin.”

“But . . . he was fucking your fiancée. That’s as good of grounds as any for an ass-whooping.”

He laughs, easing some of the tension. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But nah, the two of them just scurried out like rats, and I pretty much hadn’t seen her since, until the other night.”

“Damn,” I say. “That’s cold. Of her, I mean. No apology?”

“Nope. Rosa isn’t really the apologizing type.”

“Sounds like you dodged a bullet to me,” I say. “She sounds like a piece of work.”

“That she is,” he says. “And ever since, I’ve had trust issues, if you’d believe that.” He smiles a thin smile. “I’ve just been burying myself in work, and I guess at least that has paid off. It’s been hard for me to feel anything for any woman since, except . . .” Brock trails off, then casts a glance at me.

I feel my face redden, and I turn my gaze outside at the trees flying past. Is he talking about me? About us?

Brock coughs. “Well, anyway, I try to be completely honest with anyone I do meet. That means my relationships, if you could even call them that, tend to be short-lived. Most women run a mile when they ask you where the relationship is going and all you can reply with is something along the lines of ‘I don’t know, but I don’t feel like making a commitment right now.’”

I can’t help but feel a little bad for him and angry at his ex for putting him through that.

“But that’s my history,” he says after some silence. “What about you? What’s the deal with that Pete asshole who keeps following you around?”

I take a deep breath. “Oh, boy. Are you sure you want to go into that? It’s hardly Romeo and Juliet.”

“Awww . . . come on,” he says. “I shared. And besides, I’ve already punched the guy in the face once. Don’t I deserve to know a little more about him?”

“Yeah, I suppose you do.” I giggle. “Well, Pete was my first serious relationship. I met him at college, a little while after I gave up any hope that you’d ever look at me again.”

Brock looks uncomfortable at that comment, but I press on.

“There were a ton of red flags, even right from the start, but I guess I was too young and inexperienced to recognize them. He wouldn’t let me go out on my own, he alienated all my friends, and he constantly checked up on me, even if I was just going to class or something.

“And when I did something he didn’t like, he would fly into a rage. He put more than a few holes into the walls of our shared apartment when we lived together, he had the worst road rage and would drive dangerously, especially if we were fighting . . . and it seemed like we were always fighting.”

“Okay,” Brock says. “I have been feeling kind of guilty that I socked him, but I definitely don’t know. Asshole deserves everything he gets.”

“Yup,” I reply. “Every single thing. Anyway, eventually I sort of came up for air and realized just how much of a toxic asshole he was. But I was embarrassed that I had actually let things get to that point, you know? I didn’t want to tell anyone because I was so ashamed of myself.

“But eventually things got so bad that I told Dean about it. He was actually surprised, if you can believe that. Pete was a master at appearing like this quiet, dutiful boyfriend whenever we were around other people. Talk about Jekyll and Hyde. Dude’s a fucking psycho. Dean came around, got me out of there, and Pete’s been wanting me back ever since.”

I stop and take a breath. “So now you’re all caught up. After that, you got him kicked out of the lobby and then you punched him in the face. Thanks for that, by the way. It was awesome.”

He laughs, I join him, and somehow, we’re okay again. We keep chatting effortlessly as the car glides up and down meandering mountain roads.

“Look,” Brock says, pointing at a sign by the side of the road. “Just a few more miles now. You looking forward to it?”

I wasn’t. But . . . I am now.

We pull up to the cabin a few minutes later, and it’s exactly as beautiful as I’ve been imagining it in my mind. A cosy wooden house, right near the shore of the lake, with the mountains as a backdrop.

I stand for a few moments and take it all in. It’s amazing.

“Wow,” I sigh. “It’s like something out of a magazine.”

Brock grins. “It’s great, huh? It’s been in our family for a long time. We used to spend every summer here.”

“Yeah, I remember your Dad’s stories from the wedding party,” I tease him.

“Let’s go and say hi,” Brock coughs, swiftly changing the subject.

We let ourselves in. Brock’s Mom and Dad are already there, and they greet us enthusiastically.

“Nina!” Brock’s mom exclaims, pulling me into a bear hug. “I’m so glad you came.”

His dad kisses me on the cheek. “It’s just going to be the four of us this weekend. We didn’t invite anyone else so we can take some time to get to know you, Nina.”

“Oh, wow. Thank you for setting aside your time just for me,” I say, smiling nervously.

“No problem at all,” he says. “We’re so glad you’re here.”

Guilt creeps into my chest, reminding me I’m lying to these nice people.

I glance at Brock, who gives me a smile.

“Stop scaring her, you two.” He takes my hand, which doesn’t exactly help with my nerves. Tugging me away from his parents, he says, “Come on, Nina. Let me show you this place.”

Brock gives me a little tour of the house. It’s all exposed wooden beams and antiques, compact and cosy and wonderful, and I feel immediately at home.

“Thanks for bringing me up here,” I tell him. “I love it.”

We head back to the den, and there’s a wonderful smell wafting out from the kitchen. Brock sniffs the air like a bloodhound.

“Is that pot roast I smell?” he asks hungrily.

“Yes it is,” his Mom says, smiling. “I know how much you love it, sweetie.”

“My mom makes the most amazing pot roast,” he tells me. “No matter how many fancy restaurants I eat in, nothing compares. Hope you’re hungry.”

My stomach growls, and everyone laughs.

“I could eat,” I say, blushing, but Brock’s Dad puts his arm around my shoulders.

“No need to blush,” he says. “We like people who eat properly in this house. Luckily, we’ve never had any issue with Brock. Boy’s always eaten like a horse.”

We go into the dining room, still chatting and laughing, and sit down to an absolutely delicious meal. It’s seriously amazing. Brock’s Mom is a talented cook and she beams with pride when I tell her so.

The conversation and the wine flows, and I feel . . . at home. Like I belong here.

I can’t remember the last time I felt so at ease, what with work, Pete making my life hell, everything. Here, I can just sit back and be myself, without a care in the world.

Well, mostly myself. I’m still pretending to be engaged to my boss, after all.

Brock and I are sitting outside on the dock by the lake, water lapping and crickets chirping in the background, stars overhead shining bright on the background of dark, velvet sky.

“It’s paradise,” I sigh, my feet dangling in the cool water. “Can we stay here forever?”

Brock’s laying back, staring at the stars. “I’ll bring you back here whenever you like. It’s a special place.”

We sit in companionable silence for a little while, just enjoying the sounds of the night, when Brock’s mom pokes her head out the door and calls to us.

“We’re turning in for the night,” she says. “There are fresh sheets and blankets on your bed. Good night, sleep tight!”

And then she’s gone, closing the door behind her.

I come to a sudden realization . . . she said bed—as in, singular. So . . . Brock and I are sharing a bedroom.

I mean, of course—they think we’re engaged. Judging by how Brock’s been acting, though, I’m sure he’ll be the perfect gentleman and offer to sleep on a couch or something.

Still, the thought sends a little quiver of excitement through me.