Love Arranged (Lakefront Billionaires, #3)(100)

But now that we have, I have a taste for a different kind of revenge. One that my uncle stole from me by not pursuing manslaughter charges before Michigan’s ten-year statute of limitations.

I take a swig straight from the scotch bottle, the burn in my throat temporarily distracting me from the one in my chest. When that pain fades, I take another sip, and another, before the bottle starts to finally feel lighter.

Only that temporary relief is wiped away when Daisy returns with a new pair of socks, as if the first set wasn’t torturous enough.

“Go to bed.” I point at her dog bed in the corner.

She whimpers, but I keep my finger directed at her bed while taking another swig from the bottle. Reluctantly, Daisy heads to her spot with Lily’s socks still in her mouth.

I turn away because the knot in my stomach becomes unbearably tight.

Fuck my uncle for allowing Trevor to get away with murder, and fuck the mayor for protecting his son. And fuck me, because now that I know what it feels like to love someone, can I blame the mayor for wanting to save his son?

The sympathetic thought sends me into a devastating spiral, and I end up taking a few more swigs of my drink.

I would do anything for Lily.

Anything but give her the one thing she desires.

I stumble over to the couch. My coordination is shoddy, so I trip on a stupid accent rug but still somehow manage to land on the cushions without cracking my head open on the coffee table.

I stare up at the ceiling and sigh. The sound is too loud, and the house is eerily quiet.

Better get used to the silence.

Before Lily changed my mind, I enjoyed the solitude. I craved coming home to an empty house, but now I can’t think of anything more depressing.

Well, turns out there is one more thing, and it’s being left on read after drunk texting my fake fiancée.





CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN


Lily


Ican’t sleep, no matter how many episodes of The Silver Vixens I watch, so I decide to scroll through my phone instead. It’s an idea that goes from bad to worse when a new message pops up from the last person I expect.

LORENZO

I’m sorry.

I’m so stunned by the random apology text that I ignore it until a new one pops up.

LORENZO

I don’t want to go back to how things were before.

LORENZO

I want you.

LORENZO

Wait. No. Not like that.

LORENZO

Shit. I mean yes, also like that. But you know what I mean.

LORENZO

Right?

I should put my phone away right now. Nothing good can come from responding to his messages, and I’ll only be making this entire process more difficult for myself.

LORENZO

Please don’t hate me.

I grab a pillow and shove it over my mouth to muffle my frustrated scream.

LORENZO

And I’m s0rry about the track

LORENZO

Fracking bracelet.

LORENZO

Tracking bracelet.

LORENZO

I think I’m drunk.

I grab a throw blanket and tightly wrap it around myself while I mentally count my breaths. The urge to lash out is strong, but I hold off because I’d rather explore my emotions than unleash them.

There are multiple reasons for me to be upset over Lorenzo’s texts, but most of all, I’m mad at myself for caring about him despite the reasons I shouldn’t.

I don’t like to see anyone hurting, regardless of whether they brought it upon themselves or not, but somehow witnessing Lorenzo’s pain is infinitely worse.

He put us in this position.

He is making us both suffer over his stubbornness.

Over his pride.

LORENZO

Will you come over and hold my hair back?

LORENZO

Please.

Another message comes through ten minutes later.

LORENZO

I don’t feel so good.

LORENZO

Question: Does heartache get worse overnight?

Stubborn tears prick my eyes, but I blink them away because Lorenzo doesn’t get to make me cry. Not anymore.

I lock my phone and stare at the artificial flowers hanging from my ceiling until my vision is no longer blurry.

Does heartache get worse overnight? he asked.

I’m bitter enough to wish mine does, that way I’ll have a physical reminder of what happens when you fall in love with the wrong person.




I’m so miserable after last night, I end up asking Jane to cover my shift at the shop. I can’t risk running into Lorenzo, who always picks up his two bouquets on Friday, so I spend my day working on a pressed-flower piece in the garage.

The bride has already messaged me once, asking how it was coming along, so I need to wrap it up before she gets annoyed at the wait time. Plus the work helps keep my mind occupied for a few hours, which is much needed after last night.

I don’t expect Lorenzo to show up at my house later in the day, so I’m surprised to see him standing outside my garage, looking like he was run over by an eighteen-wheeler.

If I hadn’t known he got drunk last night, the evidence would’ve been hard to miss today.

“Hey.” He waves, and the easygoing greeting instantly pisses me off.

I walk out of the garage and yank the mask off my face. “What are you doing here?”