Fake Model by Cassie Mint

Six

Archer

I’ve never claimed to be a good man.

If the only way she’ll see me again is to finish the job she was hired to do, then fine. I’ll press whatever advantage I have, pull whatever strings I can, if it means being near her.

I’m not proud, but I can’t bring myself to care, either. I’ll do anything for a chance to convince my girl she’s mine. I don’t know where I went wrong earlier, and I’ve played every second of the day over and over in my head.

Whatever I did, whatever I said, I’ll fix it.

I have to.

I need her.

It’s ridiculous to be this addicted to someone I only met this morning. I know how fucking crazy I sound. But here’s the thing—I don’t care.

I’m Archer Westbrook. I’ve never given a shit what other people think of me, and I’m sure as hell not going to start now. I don’t care if I seem whipped, if I have to throw myself at her feet.

Hers is the only opinion that matters. The only one I want to hear.

Maybe I spooked her. Moved too fast. The thought makes my chest seize, but if that’s the problem, I’ll promise we’ll go slow. We can take as long as she needs, just as long as she doesn’t push me away.

When she chokes out her agreement over the phone, she doesn’t sound like she wants to see me. Her voice is thick with dread.

We arrange to meet in a little cove, further along the coast. It’s more sheltered than the beach, away from prying eyes, with lanterns lining the path to the water and a crystal clear waterfall. The light will be shit for photos, but I don’t care.

I just need to see her.

I get there early, my camera clenched tight in my grip as I stride along the stone path. The cove is quiet, the only sounds the distant lap of waves and the sighing breeze. It’s a warm night, warm and muggy, and a bead of sweat trickles down my spine.

What if she doesn’t come?

I take a few photos to distract myself, playing with the different settings to try and capture the pink evening light. I almost miss the quiet footsteps padding along the path behind me.

“Archer.” My heart stops. I turn slowly, the hairs raising on my skin.

She’s here. My girl. Her red hair is braided over one shoulder, and she looks… different. Tired and gaunt.

Billie smiles at me, but it’s empty. Distant. She shifts her jacket in her arms, and that’s when I notice the cast. It wraps around her wrist, clunky and awkward, wound with white bandages. I let out a groan, rushing over, my boots slamming heavy on the stone path.

“What happened?” I touch her face, her arms, her shoulders, checking for more signs of damage. How the hell did she get hurt in the space of a few hours?

Billie Blue steps back, away from my roaming hands. I shove them in my pockets instead, my chest caving in.

She really doesn’t want me. Doesn’t feel what I feel.

It was all in my head.

And it must have been, because that unstoppable magnetic pull I felt toward her earlier—it’s gone. I look at her now, and I feel nothing.

God. I’m going insane. It’s the only explanation.

“I got hit by a cyclist.” Even her voice sounds different. Surer. “It’s just a sprain. But, um. I obviously can’t finish the shoot.”

“No.” I stare down at her cast, something screaming in the back of my brain. There’s something off here, something I’m missing. “No, I see that.”

“Archer.” She wets her lip, a hint of that blush returning to her cheeks. “About what happened earlier…it can’t happen again. I’m trying to start a career.”

I nod vaguely. I don’t even try to argue. Because even though nothing’s changed, even though it makes no sense… right now, I don’t even want her.

Fuck. Am I so fickle? I’d been sure. I’d wanted to marry her, for fuck’s sake. To take her home and never let her go.

Now the woman in front of me is a stranger.

“Did…” I shake my head. “Did something happen? You seem so different, sweetheart.”

Please say yes, I beg her privately. Please help me make sense of this.

“Nothing happened.” She sounds kind of strangled. She’s an awful liar. “I’m just not interested, Archer. I’m sorry.”

“Alright,” I say slowly, stepping aside to let her leave. I watch her walk away, my gut churning, but unlike when I watched her run away earlier, there’s no urge to follow.

There’s only the rasp of my breath.

A dull ache in my chest.

And something screaming in my brain for attention.