Page 88 of Proposal Play
“Are they going to film in the main bedroom?” I ask when I return to the kitchen, unsure how far we’re supposed to take this TV shoot.
Reina gives me an uncertain look. “I don’t know…That feels kind of personal?”
“I agree. But you never know. Should I put a photo in there or something?”
“Probably a good idea. And maybe a few of your things just in case,” she suggests.
I nod, thinking of the items I stashed in the guest room on the first floor to avoid overstepping. My clothes, my lotions and potions—which, it turns out, have multiplied like Reina’s mugs. I had no idea I owned two sweet plum body sprays, a sunset blossom one, a desert willow one, and a white lilies spray until I scooped everything off my bathroom shelf and tossed it into a canvas bag. Buthere we are. Evidently, I’m a girl who likes pretty smells—and pretty lotions, judging by the tons of bottles I somehow managed to bring.
“You could put them in the bathroom you’re sharing,” Reina says gently.
“Just make sure there are five of your things for every one of his. No one will ever doubt your marriage then,” Beckett adds with a playful grin.
That earns him another swat from Reina, then a quick peck. “You’re not wrong,” she says, before she checks her phone and sighs. “We should head out—it’s getting late.”
It’s past nine. I nod. “Go ahead. I can handle the rest.”
They’ve already helped haul over suitcases, plants, and some of my artwork. Reina was careful to make everything look like I truly live here.
But once they leave, a strange quiet falls over the house. I walk slowly through the living room. It feels intimate, yet strange, to be here alone in my fake husband’s home, like some kind of interloper in his life. This isn’t a quick visit to my friend’s house anymore, an evening hang, a game night, a dinner. This is his space, his life, and now…I’m here for several days, leaving pieces of myself in each room, like this belongs to me as much as it does to him.
No, like it belongs tous.
His presence lingers here, woven into every room, every scent, every small trace of him. I run a hand over the back of the couch, my fingers brushing the fabric as I imagine him sinking down on the cushions, filling this space with his easy confidence, with his warm, woodsy scent, with his cocky smile.
I imagine him everywhere. I close my eyes, and I can feel him here, in a way.
In a way I long for.
In a way that’s getting harder to ignore.
But I have to ignore it. We set down rules in Vegas, then reestablished them the other week before our brunch with the Greers—nothing physical. Then broke them again after the board dinner. Because sex complicates everything. So dofeelings.Those fuckers really complicate things. Our fake marriage is already one huge complication; that’s why we have rules. Rules I’ll need to work hard to stick to when he returns tomorrow.
I need to focus onthat.
I open my eyes and shove those thoughts away as I head to the foyer and grab my small pink duffel bag—the one I didn’t go through in front of Beckett or Reina. I rummage through it and pull out a small box of special things I brought to make this all seem even more real—framed photos and one piece of art. Something I hope he likes. I go room to room, adding the framed pics one by one. For the camera crew of course. For the shoot.
After I finish placing the last frame in the living room, I go to the foyer and grab one more thing. A piece of art I made for him—a little mirror with a sketch on it. A new design I’m playing with. But where should I hang it? I check out the walls. It’s not really my place to hammer nails and hang items. So I bring it to the plant table and rest it against his Lego orchid.
I step back, staring at the room. What will Asher think when he sees all this? Will he be surprised? Uncomfortable? Amused? No idea.
When I finish, I take pictures of the rooms, then stand in the kitchen and text my friends, attaching the photos.
Maeve: Look—instant wife. Just add pillows, perfume, and plants. But here’s the question—where should I sleep tonight?
Everly: That couch looks like it’s made of pillows.
Fable: The guest room looks like a five-star hotel.
Josie: The carpet looks like you could fuck on it and not get rug burn.
Leighton: Girl, sleep in his bed.
I glance toward the stairs leading up to his bedroom, my heart racing dangerously fast. Do I really sleep in his bed? It feels too intimate without him here. But where will I sleep tomorrow? My stomach flips. No idea. We didn’t discuss that when he asked me to move in for the weekend. Maybe I should just head home.
I text Asher to let him know everything’s set up and that I might go home for the evening. I don’t want to presume I’m welcome tonight too. His reply comes instantly.
Asher: Stay the night, wife.