The Fake Date (Steamy Shorts #31)

Chapter 1

ELISE

Must be nice being right all the time, Mia. You insufferable oaf.

"Did you want oat milk or almond?" I fight to keep my voice steady as I tamp down espresso grounds because if I don't keep my hands busy, I might just reach over and yank her hair.

"Oh, Elise!" Mia's perfectly glossy lips curve into what a casual observer might mistake for a smile. "I told you ten years ago you wouldn't amount to anything, and look, you're still making coffee."

My hand freezes on the portafilter, its hot metal rim burning my palm. I don't pull away. The pain keeps me from saying what I want to say, which would probably get me fired from my sister's coffee shop.

"I mean, we all have different journeys.

" Mia's voice drips with honey-coated condescension as she aims her phone at me, panning slowly across the cafe.

I see the little red recording light and know I'm being immortalized in her Instagram story.

Just my luck. "Some of us just take longer to find success. Dreams take time, right?"

The espresso machine hisses, matching the sound building in my throat.

I want to tell her to fuck off, to stop filming me, to go back to whatever pilates-keto-bullshit influencer collab brought her to this side of town.

Instead, I silently prepare her drink, focusing on the swirl of milk, and keeping my emotions in check.

"Oh! Before I forget." She slides a cream-colored envelope across the counter. "Ten-year reunion at James Khan's hotel downtown. You should come—might be good networking. Everyone's path is different." She pauses, her perfectly manicured nail tapping the envelope. "You are coming, right?"

I nod. Just once.

"Great!" She takes her latte without thanking me. "Can't wait to catch up more."

The bell above the door chimes as she leaves, her departure sucking all the oxygen from the room.

I stare at the envelope, coffee grounds still stuck to my fingers. Jane emerges from the back room the moment the door closes.

She wipes her hands on her apron, frowning. "Was that who I think it was?"

"Yep." I pop the 'p' sound, a habit when I'm trying not to scream. "Queen Bee-atch herself."

"What did she want?"

I hold up the reunion invitation. "To remind me I'm a failure."

"Elise—"

"It's fine." I am so not ready for the pep talk. "She's right anyway."

Like, seriously, right?

The email is still open on my phone upstairs.

Rejection number seventeen. This literary agent didn't even bother with personalized feedback—just a template that says, in summary: "You are not as talented as you think you are.

" Five years of writing my horror novel, re-writing, editing, sending out queries, getting nowhere.

The only monster in my story is the publishing industry.

Ugh!

Jane watches me with the careful expression she's perfected since I quit my job at the online news outlet and moved into the studio apartment above her coffee shop.

She offered me this barista position as a lifeline while I 'figure things out'.

That was eighteen months ago, and I am nowhere close to reaching my dreams now than I was then. Still figuring.

"We're low on beans," I say, desperate to change the subject. "I'll do inventory after the rush."

My sister nods, but her eyes say everything she doesn't.

You're better than this. You deserve more. Don't let Mia Snow get to you.

I'm terrible at taking advice, even the silent kind, so I do what I do best—ignore it all.

My phone pings while I'm sorting through bean deliveries that evening. I almost ignore it, assuming it's another promotional email or, worse, a social media notification about Mia's latest post. When I finally glance at the screen, James's name lights up my notifications.

James: Elias playing in town next Friday. Got VIP seats. Coming with?

My pulse quickens like I've shotgunned three espressos.

I haven't seen James in person since Christmas, though we text every few weeks—mostly memes and updates about his hotel empire.

He's the only person from high school I still talk to.

I've carefully avoided mentioning my stalled writing career, calling it a "side hustle" whenever he asks.

He also has no idea I've been half in love with his best friend for a decade.

I remember the first time I saw Elias King.

Freshman year, Mia "accidentally" bumped into me in the hallway, sending my books scattering across the floor.

While she continued walking, not even breaking stride in her conversation, Elias stopped.

He crouched down, gathered my copy of Stephen King's Carrie, and handed it back with a smile that made my tongue forget how to form words.

"Good book," he said. "Though not really my top three."

I managed to nod, clutching the novel to my chest as he jogged to catch up with his friends. It was nothing to him, just a moment of basic human decency. To me, it was everything.

Two years later, James told me how Elias had publicly declared that anyone who bullied James would answer to him, effectively ending the torment James had endured since elementary school.

They became inseparable after that. It only made me crush harder, knowing Elias wasn't just the hottest man I've ever seen, but genuinely kind.

Then came senior year and that tutoring session.

Two hours alone with him at a corner table in the library, helping him with his English lit paper.

His knee occasionally brushed mine under the table when he shifted.

Once, we both reached for the same book and our heads collided softly.

He laughed, rubbing the spot where we'd connected, and I swear my heart performed a gymnastics routine worthy of the Olympics.

It meant nothing to him, I’m sure. I was just another girl, but I spent the next month hanging around the gym after school, pretending to work on the newspaper while I watched him practice from the bleachers. I'd leave before he finished, never wanting him to know I was there.

Elias was also the reason I didn't go to prom. Couldn't bear to watch him dance with Mia. As he would. I told myself I'd get over him after graduation.

All lies.

Ten years later, I still read every article about him, know every brand he works with, and can name both teams he won championships with.

Not only that, but his PTS and PPG tallies plus a host of other in-game stats and every player on each team, too.

I've never asked James about him since I was too afraid my voice would betray me. or fail me.

Now this.

My fingers hover over the phone screen. The smart answer is no. Seeing Elias in person will just reopen a wound that's never properly healed. I might even make a total fool of myself.

But then…

ME: Wouldn't miss it. See ya.

"You're overthinking this," I whisper to my reflection as I try on the fourth outfit. Nothing says "I'm a successful adult who definitely doesn't still have a pathetic crush on you" like spending forty-five minutes deciding what to wear to a basketball game.

Eventually, I settle on black jeans and the deep blue sweater Jane gifted me on my birthday.

My hair cooperates for once, falling in soft waves just above my shoulders and not going in different directions.

I keep telling myself I'm just excited to see James.

That's it. And that Elias probably won't even notice me in the crowd.

Even if he does, he won't remember me. Too long ago, and he's too successful now.

James is waiting outside the arena, his six-foot-four frame easy to spot. He's long since traded the thick glasses and hunched posture of high school for better frames and the confident stance of a man who's purchased multiple properties before thirty.

I am so darn proud of him.

He wraps me in a bear hug, lifting me off the ground.

"Girl, I've missed your face." He sets me down, studying me. "How's the novel coming?"

"Still working on it." I deflect, not really wanting to be a Debbie Downer. "Shouldn't you be out there fluffing pillows?"

"That's what I pay people for." He grins, guiding me inside with a hand on my shoulder. "Come on, we've got the best seats in the house."

He isn't exaggerating. Our seats are so close to the court that I can see the players' expressions. Feel the occasional splash of sweat. James chats easily about his latest business ventures, but my attention fractures the moment the teams emerge for warm-ups.

Oh God, there he is.

Elias.

Television doesn't do him justice. He's taller than I remember, his shoulders broader, his body more defined.

The years and his pro-sport conditioning have only enhanced his features—jaw sharper, cheekbones more pronounced.

He's all hard angles and fluid movement now.

And when he smiles at something a teammate says, his eyes crinkle at the corners.

I have to stop my jaw from dropping.

James's amused voice cuts through my trance. "Stop staring, girl."

I suck a mouthful of drool to the back of my throat and swallow. "Was I staring?"

"Uh-huh." He raises an eyebrow. "You know he doesn't date, right? At least not seriously. The media's been all over him for years, but nothing sticks. In fact, when I think about it, he never really dated back in high school either."

Really? That's news to me. I thought he and Mia were together.

I fake a sudden interest in the jumbo screens, even though I'm dying to ask him to tell me more about Elias. "I wasn't—"

"Sure you weren't." He laughs but doesn't push. If he only knew how many times I've googled "Elias King girlfriend" over the years and the sighs of relief when the searches yielded nothing. Fist pump!

The game itself is a blur of motion and sound. Elias scores thirty-eight points, including the game-winning three-pointer that has the arena erupting in chaos. I scream with everyone else, caught in the moment, forgetting to be self-conscious.