The Art of Falling in Love with Your Fake Fiancé: A small town closed door romantic comedy (Sweetkis

1. Georgie

ONE

“Ready for your Fifteen Minutes?” I call out as the room of people facing me cheers. Handing the microphone over to tonight’s volunteer host, I’m fighting my lips so they don’t show my gums. My smile is that wide.

I could never have expected my little Pages and Prose Bookshop stuffed full of people like it is tonight. Ever. When I got the idea a few months back to start hosting open mics here once a week, I wanted to try something different. A “creative speakeasy” if you will. See if any residents of Sweetkiss Creek were hiding away in their homes and not showing off their talents.

Boy, did I find my people. Beatnik poets, solo guitar acts, interpretive dancers (looking at you and your seventy-five-year-old badass self, Mrs. Linden), and even stand-up comics.

A familiar face appears in front of me. He’s got to be in his teens, maybe a senior at the local high school. It’s hard to tell his age, but he spends at least two afternoons a week here after class perusing the shelves.

“Hey, Miss Simpson, do you have enough power in this place that I could bring my band next week?”

“Please, call me Georgie,” I say. Even though I’m cringing inwardly, I work hard to not show how my insides feel on the outside. “But, no. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to do full bands, but maybe one day?” I hold up crossed fingers as I walk away. I love supporting the local arts, but someone’s first garage band in this small store would be pushing my luck. And all of our eardrums.

I make my way through the throng back to my perch on the other side of the counter. I guess since I’m the owner of the store it’s my reserved spot. I keep the sign-in list up there for folks who want a go at the mic for fifteen minutes. That’s why tonight is called ‘Fifteen Minutes of Fame’, so anybody can have a chance. Anybody within reason, but yes, anybody.

There’s a temporary stage that my friends helped me build. Don’t worry, it’s sturdy. I tested it by having two of my biggest friends, Levi and his brother, Austin, jump up and down on it to make sure it wouldn’t break. They both play in the NFL, so I figure if it can stand up to them and their muscly-body weight, it’ll hold up for everyone else.

Looking around the room, I see the faces of so many of my new friends. Moving to Sweetkiss Creek a couple of years ago, I wasn’t sure what I was in for. I just needed to start over. Fresh. Reinvent myself. I was living in New York City and had to get out. I hadn’t known where I was going, I only knew I had to go.

It was very strategic how I chose to move here, too: I pulled out a map, closed my eyes, and placed my finger down on the paper. Sweetkiss Creek won.

My host for the night is local cop, and one of my best friends” husbands, Zac Wright. He waves to me as he heads around the counter, making a beeline for me. “Hey, Georgie,” he says.

On stage, Mr. Johnson, the local florist whose business is only a few doors down from mine, starts his set. Who would have thought that a man so serious about roses is funny? Not me. Yet his sets here seem to be some of the most popular, and it makes me happy. His wife passed away last year, so to see him coming out of his shell like this makes me really happy. When I hear a loud “Woo hoo!” as he starts talking, I know his daughter is also in the audience giving him energy as he’s up there, and it’s gold.

“Great night tonight, Zac. Thanks for being my host with the most.” I hold my hand up to high-five him. “Where’s your wife? I thought she was coming.”

“Etta had to drive Dylan and Reid to the airport. They’re off to do their yearly EMT training. I think they’re in Florida for a few weeks?” He shrugs as he leans against the counter. “All I know is we’ve got their dog.”

Dylan is another one of my friends, and Reid is her husband. The dog in question is Max, and he likes to hang out with my dog. You know. When we go to the dog park. It’s a whole vibe. IYKYK.

Honestly, I landed in the village of couple goals when I came here. I’ve never been so accepted by the popular girls, probably because I’m the one who lets her freak flag fly. It usually means I roll solo. I’m also so jealous, in the best way possible, of the relationshipping that happens here. I can only hope that I find someone here who’s meant for me like my friends seem to have done.

Maybe one day.

“I’ll text her this week and see if she wants to go to the dog park. Sounds like having Max along with your two dogs she’ll need to get everyone worn out.”

“Who knew doggy play dates were a whole thing?” Zac chuckles. “Love it.” He cranes his neck and looks around. “I don’t see Levi here tonight. Is he coming?”

The tiny flutter that happens inside of me when I hear Levi Porter’s name never ceases to amaze me. I hesitated at becoming his friend. I even tried to talk myself out of it, especially once I realized the way I was starting to feel about him. But he’s become a sugar addiction I don’t want to quit. The TV show I have to tune into every week. That gas I put in my car.

Let me back up and explain. Levi Porter is one of the aforementioned NFL brothers, and he also happens to be one of my closest friends. We met a little over a year ago through a mutual friend, Riley. In the way small towns work, of course, he and Riley grew up together and were super tight, besties practically, but when she met and fell in love with her now husband Jake, she made sure to leave Levi with another female bestie who could be by his side.

That’s me. Although I did pretty much offer myself up for the role.

“He picked up his godson yesterday and moved him to the farm,” I share, keeping my voice low so I don’t annoy anyone in the crowd.

Zac lets out a giant breath of air. “Wow. To go from a single man to a dad in only a matter of months… Crazy. How’s he coping?”

“I’d say he’s doing the best he can. I mean, he hadn’t seen his friend for a few years and didn’t even know he’d been made a guardian until the call came from the emergency room that there had been an accident.”

Even though it was almost a year ago, the memory of the moment and Levi’s worry is burned into my memory. We were at Riley’s wedding when his phone rang. He’d left immediately to go to the hospital in New York where his friends had been rushed after a horrible fire.

“Isn’t there anyone else who can take the boy in?” Zac asks.

I shrug. I know that there is, and she’s waiting in the wings like a crazed stand-in on opening night, but I also know it’s a source of contention right now. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

Applause interrupts us, signaling the end of Mr. Johnson’s set and also cueing Zac to bring another tribute to the stage. He takes the mic and easily addresses the room, no anxiety at all, just him chatting with the people. If I was up there, I’d have heart failure. I can get on stage long enough to introduce the evening and the host, but that’s it. I love being excited; I’m just not a fan of being a central part of it, if you know what I mean.

Zac calls the next act up to the mic, a newbie here named Bex Madden who’s holding her guitar in one hand as she settles in behind the mic to sing a few songs. She only started coming two weeks ago and I’m glad she did—she’s a crowd-pleaser for sure. Her voice is smooth and angelic; someone compared her to a softer version of Adele, which I found interesting.

As Bex strums the first few chords, I look around, and after checking the time and a peek at who is left on the list, figure I can do some work to get ready for closing. Because of the noise ordinance, we can’t be here after eleven at night, which is fine with me. I need to be home and asleep by eleven-thirty if I can help it. A lady needs eight hours of solid rest after a busy day like I’ve had.

Pages and Prose is small but mighty. The interior is lined with five rows of shelves, each overflowing with books of all genres, from classic literature to contemporary bestsellers. When I was shopping to outfit the store, I picked out shelves made of dark wood, giving the bookstore a rustic and timeless feel. Soft lighting, turned down low for the open mic night, usually casts a gentle glow over the rows of books, creating a cozy ambiance that invites readers to explore.

The stage area is surrounded by comfy seating, including plush armchairs and sofas, where customers can relax and enjoy the performances. About six months ago, I added a small cafe area, where you can sit and enjoy a cup of coffee or tea while flipping through the pages of a new book. The walls are adorned with artwork from local artists, adding to the charm and character of the space. I really wanted this to be a retreat for book lovers, but also a place for locals to come and feel creative.

I make my way down one of the rows, straightening shelves and reordering books that I find out of place. Bex sings about heartbreak, but it’s so poetic that I get lost in the melody…as do the other patrons, evidenced by their singing along. She’s only been here a few times and she’s already getting groupies. I love that for her.

I quickly go down a second row, find some kids books stuffed into the YA section, and round the end cap to head to the back of the store and put them away. It’s where I’ve set up a small children’s area with a little table and chairs and a toy box. It’s the perfect spot for worn-out moms to come and let their kids play while they shop. I even pull babysitting some days, so they can have a cup of coffee and a time-out.

It’s when I get to the back of the store I notice a shadowy figure out of the corner of my eye. A slight figure, with a baseball hat pulled down low across their face and wearing an oversized sweatshirt, stands with their back to the room, shoulders hunched. Clapping fills the air around me as I freeze in place, staying close to the shelves so as not to disturb the stranger. My stomach flips in horror as I watch this person take a book off the shelf and, as they whip their head from left to right, lift their T-shirt and stuff it inside their pants, laying their shirt back down on top of it.

No. Way. A shoplifter? In my store? I feel the heat of indignation rising up inside of me as I walk over and, without even thinking, grab their wrist.

“Hey,” the young man cries out in surprise. “What’s that for?”

Grasping the bottom of his shirt, I tug it up, revealing the book held in place against the young man’s body by the elastic of his pants.

“To find out why you’re trying to borrow that.”

As the applause around us dies down, I hear Zac’s voice on the mic as he introduces the next act. Clyde Paulson and his puppets. That’s going to be interesting with a splash of creepy.

The kid rolls his eyes. “I’m not borrowing it. Duh.”

So I roll mine, too. “You obviously don’t understand when someone is using sarcasm as a deflector.” I pull the book from his pants and give the elastic of his super-tight sweats an extra tug, allowing it to snap back with a thwack against his skin.

“Ow.” Dark eyes look into mine. “What was that for?”

“Gee, I just don’t know,” I say, shaking my head and tucking the book under my arm. I have never had to deal with this before. I don’t know what I’m going to do with this kid, I just know I have to do something. The only thing I can think to do is to take the boy to the counter. I’m in shock. “Come with me.”

In that split second, this rogue criminal makes a decision. Flicking his eyes toward the exit on the other side of the room, he looks back at me. Surely he’s not considering running? With all of these people around? However, as I let my eyes sweep the room again, everyone is focused on Clyde as he takes to the small stage, even Zac. I start to call out for some help, but movement pulls my attention back to the kid. His eyes shift downward, then to mine once more. We’re both seeing his way out at the same time, and my stomach flips anxiously. I hate this.

“Nah, lady. I’m out,” he snarls as he takes off running, barreling toward the door.

No. Way.

To get to the door, he has to make his way through the crowd, which he does almost expertly. I’m on his heels, trying to at least reach out and grab him. I didn’t even want to punish him, just ask why he needed to steal.

Now, it’s about not letting him get away.

He’s like a ballerina, moving with grace avoiding bodies as they stand up or chairs as they’re scooted backwards. Me? I’m a bull in a China shop. Stopped and blocked each step. By the time I open my mouth to yell for help, he’s pushed the door open, bringing in a big ole’ blast of warm summer night air, and he’s out on the sidewalk. No good. By the time I reach him, he’ll have all of Sweetkiss Creek to use as his hiding spot.

I burst out the door behind him, not sure what I’ll find when I get out there myself, and I hear someone behind me. A quick glance over my shoulder tells me Zac is on my heels.

On the side of the main street, I pause, catch my breath, and look around.

“What’s going on?” Zac asks, halting beside me.

I open my mouth to answer, but someone nearby interrupts.

“What’s wrong, guys?”

Spinning on my heel, I’m super surprised, and really low-key happy, to find Levi standing in front of me—and there’s a certain rug rat tucked under his arm. Like he’s delivering me a present.

My hero.

“Trying to catch up with him,” I pant, pointing to the young boy standing with him. Now that we’re out of the dark store and standing under a streetlight, I can see his face clearly. He’s so young. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s ten or eleven, but who am I to know? I can only count in terms of dog years, if we’re honest. Let’s just say my maternal clock has never really gone off, so it’s one alarm that may be permanently on snooze.

“This guy?” Levi asks, a huge grin spreading across his face. “Have you guys already met?”

I’m struggling here. My eyes flick to Zac’s, and thankfully, he looks as confused as I do.

“Met?” What is Levi saying?

“Georgie, Zac,” Levi says, smiling from ear to ear as he steps back and claps the young man on his shoulder, “this is Duncan Livingston. My godson.”