Chapter 9 #3
"Worse," he assures me. "The last guy she set me up with spent the entire evening telling me about his collection of taxidermied squirrels."
"Okay, that's legitimately horrifying."
Caleb's expression softens slightly. "I shouldn't have used your name without asking. I'll tell her we broke up or something."
I think about how fast we're moving. Meeting parents isn't supposed to happen this soon, maybe not at all. But picturing Caleb stuck with another awful date bugs me more than it should.
"What if you didn't have to?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't have to what?"
"Tell her we broke up." The words taste wrong. "Actually, what if I went with you?”
His eyes widen slightly. "To the gala? You can't be serious."
"Why not? It fits with our plan. Makes our relationship more believable to have outside confirmation."
"It's a political event," he warns. "Extremely stuffy. Full of the exact kind of people you despise."
"I own a suit, and I can be charming when properly motivated."
He studies me, clearly trying to determine if I'm serious. "You would really do that? Spend an evening with my family and their political cronies?"
Shrugging, I attempt to be casual despite how my offer could be seen. "What are fake boyfriends for?"
Something complicated crosses his face: surprise, relief, and something else I can't quite identify. "You don't have to."
"I know, I want to."
It's not entirely a lie. The thought of Caleb facing his family alone, being paraded around as what he once mentioned, "the token gay," makes something protective flare inside me.
And after tonight, after seeing him stand up for our frat despite the size of the asshole mouthing off about us, I find I want to stand up for him too.
"Okay," he says finally, a small smile forming. "If you're sure. Fair warning, though, my mother will interrogate you, my father will barely acknowledge you, and at least one distant relative will say something horrifically offensive and probably homophobic."
"Sounds like a typical family gathering," Like I’d know what that is, but I've seen them on TV.
He laughs, the sound tired but genuine. "You have no idea."
Seconds tick by. His knuckles look worse now, even with the ice.
"That was impressive, by the way," I say quietly. "What you did tonight."
He looks down. "It was stupid. I lost my temper."
"You stood up for yourself. For all of us." Pausing, I then add, "No one's done that for me before."
He glances up, something vulnerable in his expression. "Well, don't get used to it. I'm not making a habit of punching bigots, tempting as it might be."
"Shame. You're good at it."
He smiles, and I find myself caught again by his eyes, dark and expressive, reflecting the soft lamplight of the common room. They're his best feature. Though as he shifts position on the couch, I revise that thought. His eyes and his ass are tied for first place.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing." Heat creeps up my neck. Busted "Just thinking about what I'm going to wear to this gala thing."
He seems to accept this explanation, though the knowing look he gives me suggests he's not entirely convinced. "Black tie means formal wear, not an off-the-rack suit if we want to escape my mother’s judgment," he informs me. "But don't worry about it. I'll handle that part."
"You're going to dress me?" The words are innocent, but my eyebrow waggle definitely isn't.
There it is, the slight crack in his serious expression, the corner of his mouth twitching. Worth it. Always worth it when he almost-smiles like that. My brain-to-mouth filter apparently took the night off, but seeing him relax even a fraction makes the inappropriate joke land exactly right.
He blushes slightly. "I meant I'd arrange for a rental. The Huntington's have an account with a formalwear place in the city."
"Of course you do," I tease. "Do they know you by name there, too?"
"Unfortunately, along with my measurements and preference for slim-fit jackets."
"The life of politics' favourite son." The words come out wrong, too bright, too forced.
"Not their favourite," he corrects. "Just their most useful at the moment."
The sadness behind that statement hits me harder than it should. Before I can respond, he stands up, handing me the now-melting ice pack.
"I should get some sleep. It's been a long day."
"Yeah." I stand up. "Me too."
We walk toward the stairs together, the silence between us charged with things unsaid. At the landing where our paths separate, he turns to face me.
"Thanks," he says simply. "For... you know."
"The ice? The offer to be your date? The not freaking out when you punched someone twice your size?" I suggest.
He smiles, shaking his head. "All of it, I guess."
"You're welcome. What are fake boyfriends for?"
The phrase hangs between us, feeling increasingly hollow each time I use it. Fake boyfriend. As if that adequately describes whatever is developing between us.
"Goodnight, James," he says softly.
"Goodnight, Caleb."
As he walks away, I watch until he disappears down the hallway. The evening replays in my mind, his hand in mine, the warmth of his body against my chest, the fierceness with which he defended us all.
This is getting complicated. More complicated than any spreadsheet could predict or control. And the most troubling part is that I'm not sure I want to stop it.