Lawson was freaked out.

He would deny it, Harper reflected, but she could just tell. It wasn't that Lawson was quiet; if anything, he was even more insufferably charming. He laughed. He cajoled. He sang along to the car radio. He even pointed out Leicester Cathedral as they drove past, explaining how King Richard III had been reburied there ("He's the only one I can ever remember," Lawson added cheerfully, "because he murdered his nephews, poor sods.").

He was chatty.

Buoyant, even.

But there was something just a little too bright about Lawson, Harper thought suspiciously. Something a little too quick. Something...

Off?

Harper sighed. Not that she blamed him; Lawson had made it very clear on Vauxhall Bridge that he didn't want to go to the wedding together. And then Harper turned around and told Jake that they were.

It was — as Griffin would have said — one bloody, buggering mess. Or a spectacular catastrophe, as Alisdair would have said. Haz, Harper reflected, probably would have scowled and called it a shitshow.

And all of them would have been right.

They arrived at Huntingdon Manor at three o'clock. Marble statues cast long shadows over the driveway, turning it into a piano keyboard. The manor was large — large enough to fit about 50 wedding guests, anyway, Harper observed — and it seemed to droop under the weight of its stone chimneys, blinking sleepy eyes as they approached.

"Go ahead," Lawson said, pushing open his door. "I'll get the bags."

"Thanks."

Harper took the towering stairs two-at-a-time, hurrying towards the reception desk. A thin, broad-shouldered man stood behind the wooden counter, bearing a striking resemblance to the sword mounted on the wall.

"Ah," he said. "You're here for the Lane-Pembrooke wedding?"

Harper nodded. "Sorry we're late."

"Not to worry, love." The receptionist turned to his computer. "Just one moment."

Harper waited. She felt Lawson come up behind her before he appeared, flushed and slightly out of breath from dragging two suitcases. He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in dark, wild clumps.

"Those stairs," he said, "are more cardio than I've done all year."

Harper smiled.

"Ah!" The receptionist clicked his fingers. "Here we are. And may I just say congratulations?" He beamed at them. "You two make a charming couple."

Horror swept through her. "Oh, we're not— ah, that is to say—"

"Not our wedding," Lawson cut in.

"Ah." The receptionist had the good grace to look embarrassed. "Apologies. Well, the room's all sorted. You'll have the place to yourselves as promised. Catering will be in starting tomorrow, and the rest of the décor will be installed on—"

"Hang on," Harper said, something clicking in her brain. "Did you say room? Singular?"

"Indeed."

The horror intensified. "There must be some sort of mistake. We need two rooms."

"I'm sorry, madam." The receptionist tugged at his tie. "There's only one bedroom ready for tonight. The Rosewood Suite."

"What?"

"You see?" He flipped the computer monitor around, tapping the screen. "One king-sized bed. Two adults."

Harper stared. "But how...?"

Something clicked.

Harper fought back a wave of frustration. The room was booked under Diana and David's names, wasn't it? Her parents had originally planned to come up, after all. She'd assumed that they would change it for her, and they must have assumed the opposite.

Shit.

Panic spiked through her. Okay. This was fine. She just needed a contingency plan. Something that didn't involve her sleeping in the same bed as Lawson Hale.

A thought occurred to her.

"I don't understand," Harper said, resting her elbows on the desk. "There must be twenty bedrooms in this place, and my Dad and Diana have booked it out for the week. How can there only be one room?"

"We're fumigating the rest," the receptionist said.

Harper stared. "You're joking."

"Afraid not," the man said soberly. "Bed bug infestation. But the excellent news is that all the rooms will be ready tomorrow, in time for the other guests' arrival."

Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her. "Yes, but I don't think you understand; I need them ready now."

"It's fine," Lawson said. "We'll take it."

She turned. "Lawson—"

"Harper," Lawson said in a low voice, and the surprise of hearing her name — her real name — was enough to shut her up. "There's nothing he can do. We can either share a bedroom, or we can turn around and drive back to London." His green eyes were very bright. Challenging. "Your choice."

Harper sighed. For a moment, she pictured driving back to London. Calling Diana on the way. How would that conversation go? "Hi, Diana. No, we're not at the manor. Funny story: none of the rooms are ready, and also, there's a bedbug infestation. Speak soon!"

No.

She had to stay.

Harper turned to the receptionist. "Which way is the room?"

He led them through a maze of twisting corridors, blithely pointing out fifteenth-century oil portraits as Harper did her best not to smash her suitcase into any priceless vases. Mercifully, the Rosewood Suite wasn't far, and it didn't appear to have any bedbugs either. Just a stone fireplace, a golden chandelier, and a wooden rocking chair.

And a bed. A very large, four-poster bed heaped with fur throw blankets that looked like it had been stolen from the set of Game of Thrones.

There was also, Harper noted with relief, a squashy-looking couch covered in the sort of wildflowers an elderly woman might crochet. But whatever. It was a couch.

Thank god.

The receptionist passed Lawson a key. "I'll let you get settled. Give me a shout when you're ready and we can go over the itinerary."

Harper waited until he left, and then immediately set her suitcase next to the couch. She flopped down, reveling in the comfy cushions. Perfect.

"I'll take the couch," Harper announced.

"Don't be ridiculous," Lawson said mildly. "It'll never fit in our car."

Lawson put down his duffel bag, yawning as he stretched his arms above his head. His white t-shirt rode up, revealing a bronzed strip of skin, and Harper quickly averted her eyes. For all Lawson's talk of hating cardio, she thought, he seemed to be in exceptional shape. It was incredibly annoying.

There was a thump.

Harper whipped around. It took her a moment to process what she was seeing: Lawson was bent over, dragging her suitcase toward the bed.

What the hell?

"What are you doing?" she demanded.

Lawson made a sound that was awfully close to a snort. "You don't really think I'm going to let you sleep on the couch, do you?"

She frowned. "I like the couch."

"Really?" Lawson tilted his head, studying it. "I find the floral pattern offensive."

Wariness filled her. "Can you be serious? Just for five seconds?"

"Look, Ohio," Lawson said, dropping her suitcase near the bed. "We have two options. Either you take the bed, or we share the bed." He straightened, crossing his arms. "Which would you prefer?"

He looked almost smug. Probably, Harper realized irritably, because Lawson already knew what she'd pick; she'd been desperate to claim the couch. Desperate not to share a bed. He thought he'd backed her into a corner.

Well, too bad.

She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

"Fine, then." Harper shrugged. "Let's share the bed."

Lawson stared.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. He bore, Harper thought, with just a tinge of satisfaction, a strong resemblance to Fish.

"But I—" Lawson shook his head. "That's not what I—"

"You know," Harper mused, "I finally get why you enjoy making people squirm." She rose from the couch, then slumped back onthe bed. Just to prove her point. "There's something so entertaining about it."

"We're not sharing a bed," Lawson said hoarsely.

"Why not?"

"We're just not." Two red spots burned high in his cheeks. "End of story."

"It doesn't have to mean anything," Harper said, frowning as she sat up. "We're friends. It's not like we've ever... er..."

She trailed off. Unbidden, the memory of the garden party surfaced in her mind. Lawson's warm, heavy weight on top of her. His fingers gliding up her thigh. His mouth on her own. The air between them grew heavy, loaded with static charge. When Lawson spoke, his voice was laced with dark velvet.

"Haven't we?" he asked.

Harper shivered. "Not like that. That was different. That was— that was—"

"Go on." Lawson raised an eyebrow. "Finish the sentence."

She scowled. "You're such a dick sometimes."

"A dick that you're taking to your father's wedding," Lawson said, and then paused. "That sentence sounded much less dirty in my head."

Harper crossed her arms. "Admit it."

"What?"

"You're freaked out that we're going together."

"Are we?" Lawson leaned against the bedpost. "I don't recall you actually asking me."

"Lawson," Harper said, "I'm begging you. Just play along for one night."

She could hear the desperation in her voice, but Harper didn't care. Being single at a wedding was one thing; lying about being single to your ex-boyfriend was quite another. Should she have told Jake that she was dating someone? No.

Was Harper determined to get away with it anyway?

Yes.

Absolutely.

Even thinking of Jake's face if knew the truth — if Jake realized that she was still single, and that Harper's idealistic view of love really was utter garbage— imagining his pity and his judgement and his condescending kindness—

Harper swallowed.

No. She couldn't let him find out.

"Just for one night," Harper repeated. "Please."

"Let me get this straight," Lawson said slowly. "You want me to rock up to the wedding with you so that your ex-boyfriend — who's the sort of psychotic wanker that chases a girl through a park, by the way — thinks that you've met the love of your life."

Harper winced. She knew that she'd regret filling Lawson in on the details of what happened in Battersea. "Er. Yes."

"Fine," Lawson said, and then held up a hand when Harper beamed. "On one condition."

"What?"

"We tell the boys the truth," Lawson said.

Her smile faded. "Absolutely not."

"Ohio." Lawson's voice was a warning. "Griffin will go mental if I just show up at the wedding with you."

Harper shifted until she was kneeling on the bed. "Griff doesn't have to know we're there together. Lawson, please." She seized his hands. "I just need you to be affectionate with me in front of Jake for like, five minutes. Is that really so hard?"

Lawson stared down at their joined hands. His dark lashes cast shadows across his cheekbones, and there were purple smudges beneath his eyes, as if someone had dipped their thumb in ink and stamped it there. He wasn't sleeping well, Harper realized; how hadn't she noticed that before?

"No," Lawson said softly. "I suppose it would be easy to pretend, with you."

She blew out a breath. "Thank-you."

Slowly — carefully — Lawson raised their linked hands to her cheek. Harper's breath hitched. But Lawson only brushed a crumb from her face with his thumb, dropping his hand. He turned, face unreadable.

"Come on," he said. "We'd better get a move on. Wedding prep awaits."

Hello lovely readers,

Happy Tuesday! I'm posting two chapters today, because why the heck not? ;)

Affectionately,

J.K.