Chapter 7 #2
"Us," I clarify. "Pretending to get along for Drew's benefit. He seems pleased."
He blinks, an odd expression crossing his face. "Right. Fake friendship."
Before he can continue, our numbers are called. We collect our drinks and join the others at a collection of tables near a fire pit. Somehow, we end up sharing a small table slightly apart from the main group.
When I take my first sip, I don't bother to suppress a sound of pure pleasure; the rich chocolate mixes perfectly with the spices. It's heaven in a cup, and I momentarily forget where I am, closing my eyes to savour the flavours.
When I open them, James is watching me with an intensity that sends an unexpected tingle through me, nothing to do with the hot chocolate.
"That good?" he asks, his voice slightly strained.
"Oh, it's better than good. Try it." When I push my cup toward him, it feels weirdly personal. His long fingers brush mine as he accepts the cup and takes a cautious sip.
When I push my cup toward him, it's a surprisingly intimate move. His long fingers brush mine as he accepts the cup and takes a cautious sip.
"Not bad," he says, passing it back.
Our fingers touch again as the cup passes from one hand to the other. It's normal, accidental contact, but no one lets go. His thumb rests against my knuckle, and the warmth spreading from that point has absolutely nothing to do with the hot chocolate still steaming between us.
When I glance up, his eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that punches the air from my lungs. Dark. Focused. The kind of look that means something, though what exactly I'm afraid to examine too closely.
The smart thing would be to pull back and laugh it off. Making some dry comment about personal space.
His fingers shift slightly against mine, and my brain goes offline entirely.
"Hunter! Huntington!" Gavin's voice shatters whatever moment was forming. "You gotta try these gingerbread cookies too. Emily got a dozen for us to share."
Pulling my hand away, I clear my throat. "Subtlety isn't in his vocabulary, is it?"
"Not even in his extended vocabulary," James says, shifting in his seat.
I glance down without thinking and notice his slight adjustment, the bulge in his jeans not hidden at all.
That realization sends a shock through me, and I feel my face getting hot.
I quickly look away, acting as if I'm super interested in my hot chocolate.
The next half hour passes easily. James and I discover that we both love weird sci-fi shows and both dislike the literature classes PCU makes us study for a 'well-rounded education'. We talk so naturally that I almost forget we're "just pretending" to get along until Drew comes over to our table.
"This is great to see," he says, gesturing between us. "I had a feeling you two would hit it off once you got past the initial... friction."
"We're finding common ground," James says neutrally.
"Turns out we both hate the same things," I add with a straight face. "Very bonding."
Drew laughs. "Whatever works. You're still coming to the Winter festival planning meeting tomorrow, right?"
James's expression doesn't change at all. Total poker face. "Wouldn't miss it."
"Perfect. Seven PM in the common room." Drew squeezes his shoulder before returning to Emily.
Once he's out of earshot, I lean forward. "Is it me, or are these mandatory events multiplying?"
"Like rabbits," James agrees grimly. "The Christmas season brings out Andrew's inner cruise director."
Stirring my hot chocolate, I watch Drew with Emily. There's something about the way he looks at her, like she's the center of his universe. In his attention to her, he seems to forget about micromanaging the rest of us.
"Have you noticed how he's less focused on 'brotherhood bonding' when Emily's around? It's like she's his distraction."
"She has his full attention," James agrees, following my gaze.
An idea begins to form. Absurd at first, but the more it sits there, the more sense it makes. "What if..." The words start, then stop. This could ruin the fragile truce we've got going.
"What if what?" he prompts.
I take another sip before continuing. "What if we gave him something else to focus on? Like us."
He raises an eyebrow. "Elaborate."
"We're already pretending to be friends to get him off our backs about socializing more. What if we took it further? Give him a relationship to obsess over instead of brotherhood activities."
His expression is unreadable. "Are you suggesting we fake date?"
"Think about it." Now that I'm saying it out loud, the logic makes sense to me. "Drew loves playing matchmaker. If he thinks he's successfully paired up the two most antisocial members of the fraternity, he'd consider it his greatest achievement."
My heart's beating faster than it should for a casual conversation about a fake relationship. This is insane, right? Suggesting we pretend to date just to get out of frat activities?
Except that's not the whole truth, is it?
Yes, it gets Drew off our backs. Yes, it means fewer mandatory events.
But there's something else threading through this idea, something I'm not ready to examine—the fact that spending more time with James doesn't sound like a chore.
Actually sounds... nice, which is terrifying for entirely different reasons.
But James doesn't need to know that part. The practical benefits are enough.
"We'd still have to show up to the major events, but we'd have a built-in excuse to skip the smaller stuff.
" The words come faster, trying to convince him, or maybe myself.
"And honestly, if I'm going to be forced into social situations, I'd rather it be with someone who doesn't make me want to fake my own death.
We actually... talk. Like real conversations, not just surface bullshit. "
Vulnerability creeps in there at the end. Shit. But it's true, tonight proved we can actually stand each other when we're not performing for the fraternity.
"We're both smart guys. I think we can manage to fool the guys."
"And what happens when they realize it's fake?" he asks. "Or when the semester ends?"
"We have a friendly breakup." My shoulders raise in a dismissive move as I try to sound casual, even though it's weird to talk about ending things before we've even started. "Decide we're better as friends. No drama, no hard feelings."
Something flickers across his face, so quickly I almost miss it. Disappointment? Concern? But his practical side takes over before I can figure out what he's thinking.
"We'd need rules," he says, already thinking ahead. "Clear guidelines about what the fake relationship entails."
"Obviously." This systematic approach helps, making it feel less insane. "Nothing that makes either of us uncomfortable."
He nods slowly in agreement. "It's not the worst idea I've heard."
"Ringing endorsement." My voice is dry, but I can't stop a small smile from breaking out. "So... are we doing this
The question hangs between us, loaded with things we haven't figured out yet. For a moment, I think he'll back out, the logical choice. This plan is complicated, unnecessary, and potentially disastrous. But as he looks at me across the table, Christmas lights reflecting in his eyes, he nods.
"Let's do it," he says. "But we need a plan. A detailed one."
"Detailed. Obviously," I echo, the tightness in my stomach easing.
James pulls out his phone, already opening something. Of course he is.
"You're making a spreadsheet right now, aren't you?"
"It would be the responsible approach," he says defensively.
I laugh, finding his predictability pretty funny. "Of course it would. Computer room when we get back? We can draft our relationship while everyone else sleeps."
"Perfect."
The phrase "our relationship" hangs in the air between us, oddly significant despite its pretense. This is strategic, I remind myself. A mutual benefit arrangement. Nothing more.
So why is my heart beating faster at the thought of what we're about to start?
Back at the frat house, most of the brothers immediately head to their rooms, exhausted from skating. James and I exchange a look before heading to the computer room.
The space is different at night, somehow more intimate, with the glow of monitors illuminating our faces. James takes his usual seat at his computer while I pull up a chair beside him, close enough to see the screen but not quite touching.
"So," he says, opening a new document, "Operation Fake Relationship."
"Catchy title," I say, leaning in slightly. "Very covert."
"We need to establish parameters," he continues, ignoring my sarcasm. "What we're comfortable with, what's convincing, timelines."
"Birth of a relationship, as documented in Excel, how romantic." Watching this level of organization applied to something so ridiculous shouldn't be entertaining, but somehow it is.
"You want to wing it instead?" His fingers pause over the keyboard, and there's a hint of amusement in his voice that wasn't there before.
"No." My hands go up in surrender. "A plan makes sense. I just think it's funny how organized you're being about this."
He starts typing, creating categories and headings with the efficiency of someone who organizes his sock drawer by colour and fabric weight. "Physical boundaries first? What are you comfortable with for pda's?"
The question sobers me. This is no longer a crazy idea; we're discussing actual physical contact between us.
What would look natural? What wouldn't make this weird?
Hand-holding is obvious; couples do that.
Arms around each other in group settings, that's normal too. Nothing excessive. Keep it simple.
"Hand-holding seems basic. Arm around shoulders or waist in appropriate contexts."
He nods, adding these to the document. "Kissing?" The word seems to hang in the air between us.
A mental image arrives without permission: his lips against mine. I swallow hard. "Brief kisses would be convincing. Nothing... excessive."
"Defined as?"
"No tongue. Nothing that would give the brothers a free show." My face is heating up; I can feel it, but can't stop it. Bloody inconvenient.
He types this specification, his profile illuminated by the monitor's blue light. "Agreed."
"What about you?" Clearing my throat, I ask. "Any specific boundaries?"
His brow furrows slightly. "I'm not big on public displays in general, but I understand the necessity for convincing evidence. I think I'm comfortable with the parameters you outlined."
"Great,” I say way too fast. Fuck, if it’s embarrassing to talk about how am I going to pull it off? What if the guys don’t believe it? Oh crap, what if I start to believe it? Shit!
Deep breath. Moving on. "What else?"
"Timeline," he suggests. "How do we transition from a budding friendship to a relationship?"
We spend the next hour planning how we'll slowly move from friends to something more. Study sessions that run late. Touching each other casually, but more often. Inside jokes that show we're getting closer. All building up to ‘officially’ becoming a couple right before the Winter festival.
"We'll need a backstory. How we went from antagonism to attraction." Strange how easily that word, attraction, rolls off my tongue now.
"Late-night work sessions where we saw different sides of each other?" That’s basically what’s actually happening between us.
"Yeah," I say, nodding. "Simple, plausible, close enough to the truth to be believable."
"And what about outside the fraternity?" he asks. "Your family, for instance."
My stomach churns, and I feel my shoulders tense.
Introducing anyone to my parents means watching them get judged by the Huntington political machine.
Watching my father calculate whether a relationship helps or hurts his Senate run.
Enduring my mother's questions about James's family, his prospects, and whether he "understands the responsibilities that come with the Huntington name. "
And this isn't even real. I can't imagine putting James through that whole show for something fake. I can barely stand putting myself through it for things that are real.
"But if they visit—"
"They won't." My parents visit the campus only for official functions where their presence benefits my father's image. A fraternity house is not on their itinerary.
"Fine. My status as a forever-single guy is pretty well-known, so no problems there." A hint of making fun of himself in his voice that grabs my attention.
"Forever single because you want to be?" I ask, even though I probably shouldn't.
"By circumstance," he says. "Relationships require… trust. Not my forte."
"Understandable." I can recognize a fellow emotional fortress when I see one.
We continue to refine our plan, addressing everything from pet names, absolutely not! To how we'll handle potential jealousy scenarios. By the time we finish, it's nearly 3 AM again, and we have a solid plan for a convincing fake relationship.
Looking at our finished document, I shake my head. "This is either brilliant or completely insane."
"Possibly both," he concedes. "But it addresses our mutual problem."
Stifling a yawn as my head nods. "So we're agreed? Operation Fake Relationship begins tomorrow?"
"With a slow rollout like we said in the relationship agreement,” I say, as he saves the document to a private folder.
I laugh. "You're something else, Hunter."
"In a good way or bad way?" He's no longer looking at the screen, his fingers still on the mouse but frozen. Like the answer actually matters.
Looking at him directly, I allow myself more honesty than I usually do. "I'm still figuring that out. But I'm leaning toward good."
Something changes between us right then, as if we both realize this game we're playing has rules we don't quite understand yet. I should probably be concerned, but instead I am weirdly excited about what comes next.
"We should get some sleep," he says finally, shutting down his computer.
Standing and stretching after hours of sitting, my shirt rides up slightly, and I catch James looking away quickly. He looked. And now he's pretending he didn't. Something about that, about getting to him, makes me feel weirdly powerful.
"Goodnight, James," I say, using his first name deliberately. "Sweet dreams of spreadsheets and strategic deception."
"Goodnight, Caleb." The way he says my name sounds different somehow. More significant. Or maybe I'm just reading something that doesn't exist into it.
His door closes before mine does, and the hallway goes quiet.
The fake relationship thing made sense as we planned it: clear rules, mutual benefits, and an easy exit strategy. But hanging out tonight felt... not fake. The hot chocolate, the lights, his stupid rare smile that did something weird to my chest.
Which means this is already getting messier than it needs to be, and we just started.
Well shit.