Chapter 70
Chapter 70:
The next night, we started the rehearsal over dinner.
Ashton sent the staff away at my insistence.
Then, instead of sitting across from me as usual, he slid into the seat beside me, like we were already at his grandfather’s party, pretending to be the happy couple.
He pointed out where people would be sitting, who I needed to watch, which uncle pretended to be vegetarian to impress his green-juice-obsessed wife but secretly devoured steaks like a cave troll, and which one nearly blew up a construction site because—get this—he thought a pile of dynamite looked ‘fun.’ Also, there was a cousin who might come for my throat because Ashton had apparently gotten her arrested for reckless driving.
It was the most he’d talked to me since this whole thing started.
And even though his tone was dry and matter-of-fact, the stuff he said was… weirdly funny.
I found myself relaxing and even occasionally laughing.
The rehearsal continued after dinner.
By then, I’d accepted my fate.
It was just hugging, right?
Except this time, Ashton upped the difficulty—front hug, side hug, handshakes, air kisses, that dramatic couple’s entrance where I had to hook my arm through his and glide in like we hadn’t been awkward strangers a week ago.
And the weirdest part was, it started feeling… normal.
Like, dangerously normal.
Like muscle memory was kicking in.
So much so that when we sat down to take a break, I kind of… passed out.
Yeah. Dead serious. I fell asleep.
On him.
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Full-on napping, face smooshed against his shoulder, legs curled up, drooling—on-his-shirt kind of passed out. I blamed the wine.
When I finally woke up and looked at the wall clock, it was past ten.
Which meant I’d been out for nearly two bloody hours.
I sat up so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash.
My hair was a mess.
My brain was scrambled eggs.
And I’d just spent two whole hours unconscious in Ashton’s arms, like some love-struck romcom extra.
Kill me now.
What was worse—he’d let me.
He’d just sat there. For two hours.
Letting me sleep on him.
Like we were… that kind of couple.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I swatted those thoughts away like mosquitoes on a humid night.
I sat up properly, fingers running through my tragic bedhead. “Think we’re good for today p>
“Yeah.” He leaned back. “We’ll run it again tomorrow. Daily practice until we meet my grandfather, if that’s okay with you p>
“Cool,” I mumbled, pretending I wasn’t still mentally screaming into the void. The way the Laurents operated, I wouldn’t be shocked if they held family dinners with lie detectors under the placemats.
Ashton being the (rumored) bastard son probably made him a walking target.
No wonder he was so… calculated.
I stood up. “So… dinner and hugs again tomorrow p>
I was thinking maybe we should rehearse talking points instead. Maybe a family cheat sheet, names, ranks, shareholding charts…
“NO. Tomorrow we rehearse the kiss p>
I froze. Turned slowly.
“Kiss,” I echoed, incredulous. “As in, kiss kiss p>
“Yes,” he said.
I blinked. “You mean like… an air kiss?” Hopefully.
“Do couples air kiss?” he countered.
“They do if they’re in France p>
He quirked a brow. “Are you sure the French are only air-kissing and not, say…
French kissing p>
My soul flatlined.
“We’re not actually going to French kiss in front of your grandpa, are we? What if he has a stroke p>
Ashton smiled. Just a little, which somehow made it worse. “No French. Just a kiss. The kind couples do when they’re dating p>
Yeah, no big deal. Just my mouth,
on his.
In front of an ailing patriarch and a family full of snoops.
Casual.
“You’re not joking?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.
“I’m not p>
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
Tried again.
I probably looked like a dying goldfish on land.
“My cousin tried something similar,” he said. “Hired a girl to play the girlfriend. It was Christmas Eve, the whole family was there. They fooled no one. His mum cut off his allowance for three years. Until he brought home a real girlfriend p>
I stared. “Wait—seriously p>
He gave me the ‘I’m-a-man-of-facts’ look. “Do I look like I lie for fun p>
No. He looked like he filed lawsuits for fun.
But that was beside the point.
My brain whirred like an overheating hard drive.
If someone saw through us, would Ashton get hit with the same treatment? He didn’t exactly strike me as the type to take criticism lying down, let alone roll over for a punishment. Still, I’d promised I’d cooperate.
While I was still standing there like someone had brained me with a frying pan, Ashton got up from the sofa like he hadn’t just casually drop-kicked my sanity. He brushed past me on his way upstairs and tossed over his shoulder, “I’ll be home early tomorrow p>
Then he disappeared around the landing.
I stood there in the middle of the silent living room.
My legs finally gave a sad little twitch of protest, so I dragged myself upstairs and faceplanted onto the massive bed.
As soon as I shut my eyes, the word “kiss” started doing naked cartwheels across my mental sky.
I must’ve fallen asleep somewhere between shame and denial because the dream that hit was straight-up X-rated.
I was flat on my back, pinned to a leather sofa I didn’t recognize.
Someone was kissing the breath out of me—hot, messy, and way too real. My skin felt like it had been cranked up to lava, and my brain had noped out entirely.
I tried to push him off, but every time I squirmed, he just followed.
The room was blurry.
The world didn’t exist outside of that touch, that mouth, those hands.
I couldn’t see his face, but everything in me screamed I knew him.
My body did, anyway—my heart was too busy having a meltdown.
Then, just before dawn, the dream finally gave me a name to go with the body.
Ashton Laurent.
I jolted awake like I’d been tasered.
“Nope,” I muttered, slapping my cheeks to manually reboot my system.
I grabbed my phone—7:80 a.m.
Countdown to kissing practice had officially begun.
Nope, nope, nope.
I needed a plan.
Preferably one that involved not being within ten meters of Ashton’s mouth. Time to make a run for it.