My Ex’s Sister Asked Me to Be Her Fake Fiancé at a Family Wedding, but One Hotel Bed Turned the Lie Into Something Neither of Us Could Take Back

The Harbor Crest lounge smelled faintly of expensive gin, cedarwood, and old money. A crackling stone fireplace dominated the back wall, casting dancing shadows over a room filled with thirty members of the Keller clan, all of whom seemed to possess identical piercing blue eyes and an uncanny ability to make you feel like you were standing trial without a lawyer.

"There they are!"

Uncle Richard, a booming man with a red face and a glass of scotch permanently welded to his right hand, raised his voice above the polite murmur of conversation as Eleanor guided us into the room. Every head turned in unison. It was like walking onto a theater stage without a script.

Brooke’s hand found mine, her fingers sliding between mine with a familiarity that felt dangerously real. Her palm was slightly damp.

"Everyone," Eleanor announced, her voice ringing with theatrical delight. "This is Brooke’s fiancé, Leo. Isn't it wonderful?"

A polite ripple of applause and murmurs rippled through the room. I pasted on my best, most convincing "delighted prospective son-in-law" smile—the same expression I used when a difficult client tried to convince me that a custom walnut desk should cost fifty bucks because they saw something similar at Ikea.

"A woodworker," Aunt Margaret said from the corner, lowering her reading glasses to inspect me like I was a rare, slightly diseased insect. "How charming. Do you have a shop, young man, or is it more of a... hobby?"

"It’s a business, Margaret," I said evenly, keeping my grip on Brooke’s hand steady and firm. "We build custom furniture for people who prefer wood that doesn't fall apart when you look at it."

Several people chuckled. Aunt Margaret sniffed, taking a sip of her Chardonnay.

"Well," a smooth, cultured voice drifted over from the bar area. "At least someone in the family is keeping the manual labor industry alive."

The crowd parted.

Derek Walsh stepped forward, holding a martini glass with two olives. He looked exactly as I remembered: tall, impeccably tailored in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my entire set of power tools, with slicked-back dark hair and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. Beside him stood Ashley, a tall, thin woman in a tight red dress who looked like she spent twenty hours a week doing Pilates and judging people on Instagram.

"Derek," Brooke said, her voice dropping an octave into a tone so cold it could have frozen the Pacific. "Ashley. Good to see you made it through traffic."

"Traffic was a breeze when you drive a car with actual horsepower," Derek said smoothly, his eyes sliding past Brooke to lock onto me. The amusement in his gaze was thinly veiled. "Leo, right? The... cabinet maker. I heard through the grapevine that you and Brooke got engaged. Must be a big step up from dating my ex."

The entire lounge went dead silent. You could hear the crackle of the fireplace over the sudden, suffocating tension.

My jaw clenched so hard my back teeth ached. I took a half-step forward, ready to introduce Derek’s face to the nearest mahogany cocktail table, when Brooke’s hand tightened sharply around mine.

She stepped in front of me, her chin raised, her eyes flashing with a cold, devastating brilliance.

"A step up?" Brooke smiled, a sweet, razor-sharp expression that was absolute perfection. "Derek, honey, comparing Leo to you is like comparing a custom-built Swiss watch to a plastic digital clock found in a cereal box. Leo actually knows how to build things that last. And more importantly, he knows how to treat a woman without needing an office assistant to keep him honest."

Ashley’s face flushed a violent shade of crimson. Derek’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing into cold, hard slits.

"Ouch," Uncle Richard muttered from the bar, trying unsuccessfully to hide a laugh behind his scotch glass.

"Well," Derek forced a laugh, though his voice was strained. "Congratulations. Truly. I hope you two last longer than a season of bad television."

"Oh, we will," I said, my voice dropping into a low, steady rumble that made Derek take an involuntary half-step back. I pulled Brooke slightly closer, my arm settling securely around her waist, feeling the warmth of her body pressed against mine. "Some things are built with quality materials, Derek. You wouldn't understand."

Eleanor, sensing that the blood sport had gone slightly too far for a Thursday evening, immediately swooped in with a glass of champagne. "Right! Dinner is being served on the terrace! Everyone outside!"

As the crowd surged toward the glass doors, Derek shot me one final, venomous look before turning away.

Brooke let out a long, shuddering breath, sagging against my side once the bodies blocked us from view. "Remind me never to let you near him with a blunt instrument," she whispered.

"I was aiming for a sharp one," I murmured back into her hair, catching the scent of vanilla and sea salt.