All Chapters of Rival's Contract Marriage : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

POV: BrandonIt started with a Friday night impulse and one very dramatic proclamation.“We’re going to die buried in textbooks,” I said, sprawled out across Cameron’s bed like I’d just delivered a monologue in a tragic coming-of-age movie.Cameron didn’t even look up. “You say that like it’s new information.”I sat up, grabbed his phone, and waved it in his face. “Pack your stuff. We’re going away for the weekend.”He blinked. “Are you having a stroke?”“Nope. I’m having a crisis. And the cure is salty air and zero Wi-Fi.”“Brandon.”“Cameron.”“Be serious.”“I am being serious. You, me, sand, sunburns. Come on, it’ll be cute.”He sighed like I’d just asked him to climb Everest barefoot. “We have responsibilities.”I pouted. Actually pouted. “You have responsibilities. I have Pinterest boards titled ‘Running Away From My Problems.’”He snatched his phone back. “That explains so much.”I flopped back on the bed and threw an arm over my face. “Live a little, grumpy angel. One weekend.

POV: CameronThe next morning, the motel room smelled like waffles and cheap soap, and my hair was a full-on disaster. Like, aggressively sticking up in angles that defied gravity and logic. Brandon, of course, looked like he’d just walked out of a toothpaste commercial—shirtless, annoyingly sunlit, and humming as he dug through his bag for socks.“Why are you awake?” I croaked, my voice still wrecked from the nightmare and… okay, maybe a little from crying.Brandon looked over, grinning. “Because it’s morning and there’s free motel waffles, duh.”“You’re too cheerful for someone sleeping on a mattress older than both of us combined.”He walked over, still barefoot, and flopped back onto the bed like a golden retriever. “We survived the haunted vending machine noises and your snoring. That’s cause for celebration.”“I do not snore,” I said automatically, even though I one hundred percent did and we both knew it.He wiggled his eyebrows. “Says the guy who nearly punched me in his sleep

Cameron POVIf you’d told me two weeks ago I’d be sharing a crappy motel bed with Brandon, listening to him dramatically narrate fake ghost stories while I brushed my teeth, I would’ve assumed you’d been possessed. By a liar. And maybe also haunted.But here we were.“I’m telling you,” Brandon said from the other side of the bathroom door, “Room 107 is cursed. They say if you flush the toilet three times and whisper ‘Finals Week,’ a ghost student appears and cries over your GPA.”I spat toothpaste into the sink. “You’re an idiot.”“A charming idiot,” he called back.I stepped out, towel over my shoulder, and saw him lying dramatically across the bed like a tragic Victorian widow—except in pajama pants and a T-shirt that said “Caffeine is my soulmate.”“Move over,” I muttered, pushing his leg.He wiggled dramatically but scooted. “Rude. I was channeling my inner romantic poet.”“You were hogging the pillow.”“Same thing.”I rolled my eyes and turned off the light, the room dimly lit by

POV: BrandonCameron didn’t talk to me for the first ten minutes after we left the rink.Which, for the record, is how I knew I totally, completely won.I glanced over at him, trying to hide my smug grin. He was in the passenger seat, arms crossed, hair still messy under his hoodie, and his nose scrunched up like I’d personally insulted his ancestors. His cheeks were still a little red from the cold—or maybe from losing. Probably both.“You okay over there, sunshine?” I teased, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel.He didn’t look at me. “I’m fine.”“You sure? ’Cause I could’ve sworn I saw you throw your stick like a dramatic Disney villain at the end there.”He shot me a glare that could’ve frozen the sun. “You play dirty.”I gasped. “Excuse me, I play smart. Not my fault you fell for the fakeout.”“You elbowed me in the ribs.”“That was love.”“That was violence.”I bit back a laugh. “I still won though.”He rolled his eyes so hard I was worried they might fall out of his head.

POV: CameronWe didn’t move for a while. Just sat there on the hood of Brandon’s dusty car, my hand wrapped in his, watching clouds drift like lazy thoughts. It was quiet—except for the occasional chirp of a distant bird or the wind rustling in the trees behind us.I wasn’t usually good at quiet. My brain liked to run marathons. But with him… it was different. Still busy, yeah. But quieter busy. Like background noise I didn’t hate.Brandon turned his head toward me and smiled. That dumb smile that always looked like it was hiding a joke.“What?” I muttered, because I couldn’t just let him look at me like that.He shrugged. “Just thinking.”“That’s never a good sign.”“Wow,” he said, fake offended. “I open my heart, and you stomp on it in your dusty Converse.”“I wear Vans.”“Exactly. Extra disrespect.”I rolled my eyes, but the side of my mouth tugged up anyway. “What were you thinking?”He leaned back on his elbows, gaze fixed on the sky. “Just that this is the happiest I’ve ever bee