She bought me clothes.

And shoes.

I step out of the bathroom and stare at the bags she put on the table. “I’m not wearing those.”

“You have to.” She digs in her purse for her car keys. In another minute, she’ll leave for work and I won’t have to see her the rest of the day. “We’re going out with my friends this weekend.”

“We?”

“If you want this charade to look real, you have to meet my friends and pretend to be . . .” She finally looks at me, and her eyes go saucer wide.

I didn’t put on a shirt or shorts. I’m standing in the hall in my boxers.

Her eyes draw over my chest, tracing my muscles like they’re an image she wants to commit to memory. I seize on her vulnerability and walk toward her. I can send her to work with more memories than the sight of me.

She backs away and says in warning, “Logan.”

“What?”

“I have to go to work.”

“I know.” I move to her, intending to grab her.

She dodges me. “Leave me alone.”

I pause, and tilt my head. “Do you mean that?”

Her breathing is shallow. She doesn’t answer, merely walks the long way around the table so she doesn’t have to touch me.

“Don’t deny it.” I’m taunting her.

She grabs her purse.

I follow with my eyes. “Look at me.” She does as I say, and I walk to her. “I’ll be here when you get home.”

Her teeth grind and she growls. “I hate you.”

“That’s what I want.”

She brushes past me to the door.

I call after her, “I’m not going.”

She looks back. “What?”

“Out with your friends. I won’t go.” Me and people do not mix. There will be nothing pretty about me meeting her friends.

But in the light of the brutal look she gives me, perhaps I could be persuaded—maybe it’s another opportunity to make her miserable.

* * *

I can’t live with him. I can’t.

Waking up to a picture-perfect man, all shoulders and abs and pecs and hips and . . . Jesus. A girl isn’t supposed to see that, turn it down, and get through her day with any sort of reason intact.

But my tune changes when I get to lunch—then I’d do anything to be at home with that man made of temptation rather than be here at work.

Blake bombards me, not even texting first, just showing up.

“How did you know I was here?” I’m frozen in my chair on the patio. I’ve been enjoying eating alone since I’m not sharing a lunch with Amisha anymore. No people, no questions.

He pulls off his aviators and stuffs them in his shirt pocket. “I texted Amisha and she told me what time your lunch is.”

“You could’ve texted me.” I’ve had silence from him since he warned me out of his office.

He folds his long legs and squeezes into the chair across from me. I do a double take. My brother’s never been a small guy, but his shoulders have definitely gotten wider recently. “You wouldn’t have answered me.”

“I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

A soft growl catches in his throat. “I was angry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You were a jackass.”

“Yes, I was. But if you didn’t do stupid shit like marry strangers who are after you for your money, then I wouldn’t have to be a jackass.” He glares that big brother glare, but it’s morphed into something else.

I gasp and cover my mouth.

“What?” He squints at me and the glare is gone.

My heart slows again. “You looked so much like Dad for a second.”

He recoils like I’ve smacked him. “I did?”

“It’s nothing.”

He leans on his hand and covers his eyes. “Promise me something.”

“What?”

“If I ever hurt you, you’ll call the police and have me arrested.”

“What? Why would—”

He slaps the table. “Promise me. Please.” The look in his eyes is equal parts horror and caution.

“Blake.” I sit forward. “You would never hurt me.”

“You have no idea what I’m capable of.” He tilts his head and I see it again. In the slope of his brow, the twist of his mouth and in the set of his shoulders, my father is there. And not in a good way, in a fearful-of-what-he’ll-do-next way.

“I promise,” I whisper.

He nods and takes a deep breath of relief.

“Did he ever . . . ?” I try to ask.

“We’re not talking about him.”

I don’t want to talk about our father either.

He points at me. “We’re talking about you.”

“Oh.” That is not a relief. “What about me?”

He settles back in his chair. “How’s married life?” His mockery is thick. He doesn’t believe I’ve really married Logan for a second.

I look at my hands. I still don’t believe it myself.

“I can get you a divorce.”

“No!” I blurt too fast. The panic I feel at the thought of him exposing everything is on my face, I’m sure.

His expression turns anxious. “Penny, let me help you.”

I have to learn how to lie. I have to find some way to convince him that Logan means something to me. “We’re going out with my friends on Friday. You should come.”

“And what? Hang with your friends?” He grimaces like I’ve asked him to spend time with screaming children.

“It’s Amisha and Layla.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “And Logan.”

“He worked as a janitor at the university.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your husband. Didn’t he tell you? He cleaned floors where our father used to work.”

“Oh.” I should hide my surprise better. I stare at my food. “Yeah.”

“You knew?”

“Mm-hm.” I take a bite of sandwich. “Is that supposed to be a bad thing?”

He sputters for words. “You have nothing in common.”

“Maybe it’s not something you can comprehend.”

“Don’t try to tell me you’re in love with him. We both know that’s a lie.”

His insults, his pestering, his treating me like an ignorant girl—it has to stop. “What would you know about love?”

“Nothing. I’m not pretending to.” His quick answer surprises me. “I’m trying to figure out why you married this bastard. It’s not because he’s a nice guy. I met him.”

“You have no idea what he’s like in private.” How good his hands are, how much he thrills me. I choke again. I’m defending the master manipulator—holy Stockholm Syndrome.

“You have no idea how much he’s manipulating you.”

I do actually. “Because he loves me.” Wow, that lie came easy.

“He’s convinced you he loves you?”

My jaw flaps on a non-answer. “You need to come out with us this weekend.” Which, if anything, is going to convince Blake even more that I’m a liar, but it’s the only option I have.

He sits forward. “He’s using you, Penny. Why can’t you see that?”

“Why can’t you see I’m not that stupid?” I lean my elbows on the table. “I know when I’m being used.”

He squints. “What do you mean?”

“I’m taking care of myself, is all.”

He turns his chair. “But not enough.”

He’s leaving and I have the urge to ask him to stay. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“What?” he growls, not unlike another man I know.

“Did you—how come—?” We never talk about this. Have never and will never, unless I bring it up.

“Spit it out.”

“Why do you hate Father so much?”

His shoulders slump. “We went over this.”

“Was it only the trust fund thing or was there something else?” I shouldn’t be asking this. There’s nothing else my father did that would make him hateable. Logan’s lies are infiltrating my head.

His mouth stretches in a grimace. “You don’t want to know the answer to that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t!” He snaps it like a whip, the words cracking through the air, drawing gazes from other people.

“Okay,” I whisper, but my hands tighten on my chair. He’s hiding something, protecting me for a reason I don’t understand.

But as much as I want to know, a greater part of me does not want to know. A greater part of me fears that what Blake’s hiding might be as bad as, if not worse than, Logan’s lies.

I can’t handle that.