Chapter 2
two
Cole
I’m late. When I told my client, Mr. Walker, that I needed to leave, he took that as his cue to ask ten questions about grout.
One arm at a time and with one hand on the steering wheel, I shrug out of the button-up shirt I’m wearing over my usual white Tee. It’s got dust and grout all over it, which is par for the course. I do a quick armpit check as I pull onto my street.
My old street.
Yesterday after work, I drove all the way here before realizing I’d been on auto-pilot. I’m still getting used to the fact that I don’t live here anymore.
When my agent reached out about my mail being here, I almost asked her to have it forwarded so I could avoid coming, but there’s a part of me that wants to see the house now that someone else lives here.
Maybe it’ll help me put the house behind me.
It’s time to start fresh. That’s the whole reason I sold it.
Tossing the button-up shirt to the back seat, I pull into the driveway as a text comes through from my electrician. I type a quick response as I get out. We’re right on schedule for the Walker house, which is a small miracle in the world I inhabit.
I’ve taken all of ten steps on the sidewalk when I look up from my phone and stop short.
Ten feet ahead, two women stand under the porch light. The one holding the door open is a short, pretty brunette, while the woman facing her has long, black hair, her arms crossed in front of her.
I know the second woman. What I don’t know is why in the world Bree Phillips is on my porch. My old porch.
I’m tempted to spin around, run back to my car, and high-tail it out of here. I would, but I’ve been made. Both women are staring at me.
“I thought you said you didn’t do relationships,” Bree says in an et tu, Brute tone.
I open my mouth, but her comment requires more processing time. The implication is that I’m in a relationship.
“Bree was just telling me how much better than me she thinks you can do,” the woman at the door says with a smile that comes with a neat little blink that says isn’t that fascinating?
It’s a beautiful smile, so wide I can see almost every one of her top teeth. Not teeth that bite—the kind that invite me to play along if I dare.
Oh, I dare. I double dog dare.
Bree has apparently made the assumption that this beautiful stranger is my girlfriend—an assumption I’m not ready to put to bed if the stranger is willing to let it ride, which it seems she is.
I’d love for Bree to stop texting me. I’d love for her to no longer heart every one of my work and personal posts on social media. A fake girlfriend—stranger or not—may be just what the doctor ordered.
I skip up to the porch and past Bree, then wrap my arm around…the nameless woman who’s become my girlfriend. I look down at her with a soft, adoring smile. “No one could do better than you, pumpkin.”
She meets my gaze with her own full of twinkling mischief that sends a little spark through me, like a lit fuse making its way through my veins on the way to my heart.
“You’re too good to me,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder.
She smells like vanilla, which is welcome after a day of inhaling dust and drywall.
The warmth of the gesture takes me off guard, though. I go on a lot of dates. I kiss a lot of women. But snuggling up is not something I do.
Don’t get attached is my mantra, and it’s a lot harder to follow the more I physically attach myself.
I know why I’m willing to engage in this little charade, but I can’t say I understand why she’s so ready to play along. I look for the answer in her face, but my research is interrupted by a little scoff from Bree.
“Oh”—the woman’s head comes off my shoulder—“Bree kindly brought back your sweatshirt.” She holds it out by the shoulders, then looks up at me, smiling. “Isn’t that sweet of her?”
“You left it at my place,” Bree says, all tone and zero subtlety—remember how you were at my place?
Oh, I remember. Unfortunately.
There’s also a hint of accusation in it—like she thinks it was a calculated move on my part.
Which is, just…mind-boggling given the truth of what happened.
“How’d you know where to bring it?” I ask, not entirely sure I want to know the answer. Bree was never invited to my house. No woman was. I have no idea how she knows where I live.
Used to live.
“I saw your address on an invoice at my parents’.” Her tone isn’t even defensive. She sees no red flags, no problem with showing up at my house based on information she acquired from a private bill. That’s why I feel no remorse about my next move.
“Well, thanks.” I take the sweatshirt my fake girlfriend is holding. “It’s my favorite sweatshirt.” I put it over her head.
She accepts this turn of events with good grace, shrugging into it and smiling at me with amusement as she fixes her mussed hair. It’s a warm, deep brown–the same shade as her brows and lashes.
“Looks good on you,” I say.
It does. She’s so petite, she’s half-drowning in it, but it’s a good half-drowned look, which I didn’t realize was a thing until this moment.
I sling my arm over her shoulders again, and she wraps hers around my waist.
“Bree.” Bree’s friend comes up and gently takes her by the arm. “Let’s go.”
Bree looks at us one more time. “Fine.” Her gaze moves to the woman beside me. “Just remember what I said.”
My brow ticks up. I almost ask her to expound, but if anyone here delays Bree’s departure, it won’t be me.
“Thanks for bringing the sweatshirt,” I say as she and her friend turn toward the car.
“Bye!” my girlfriend says brightly, waving energetically.
I’m still trying to grasp that she played along. Should that concern me? What exactly have I gotten myself into in order to get myself out of the situation with Bree?
The engine and headlights go on, and we both wave again as the car pulls away, Bree’s eyes following us until they can’t.
Once the car is out of sight, our arms drop, and I turn toward her. I like how she looks in that sweatshirt. “Thanks for…uh…”
“Don’t mention it.”
I search her face, then ask the question I can’t get out of my head. “Why did you do it?”
She laughs softly. “Well, to be fully transparent, I was leaning Team Bree up until I learned you’d only gone out twice.
And when she called me a downgrade, I fully swapped to Team Cole.
Let’s grab your mail, shall we?” She opens the door—the door I’m used to opening for people—and I follow her inside.
It’s surreal. It’s my house, but it isn’t, like it’s wearing a new pair of clothes I’ve never seen before.
I like this pair of clothes. There’s a stack of unpacked boxes in the living room, but she’s made the house look homey in a way I never achieved but had always kind of pictured.
“So,” I say as she leads me into the kitchen, “does my new girlfriend have a name?”
“Don’t even remember your own girlfriend’s name? Bree was right. Cole Bradley is a heartbreaker.” She shakes her head at me, then smiles as she grabs a stack of mail and hands it to me. “It’s Reese.”
“Reese,” I repeat. “My favorite candy.”
Her brows go up. “Are you a Reese’s cup guy?”
“Reese’s Pieces. All the way.”
She scrunches her nose. “I think that’s our cue to break up.”
“Aww, come on.”
“Sorry. Let’s call it irreconcilable differences.” She pulls off my sweatshirt. “Here you go.”
I chuckle as I take it from her. This girl is definitely not who I was expecting to get my mail from.
Reese sighs with a hint of melodrama. “I was never good enough for you anyway, according to Bree. And now I save you the trouble of breaking my heart and…what was it she said? Oh, right. Tossing it in your dumpster fire with all the other ones you’ve broken.”
“Ah,” I say. “Right. My dumpster fire of hearts. I need to go throw some more gasoline on there. It’s looking a little sad.”
Reese reveals that show-stopping smile. “Well, until you can get your hands on another heart, you’ve got some kindling there.
” She nods to indicate the stack of junk mail I’m holding.
“And hey, if you forward your mail properly, you won’t even have to come get it.
The kindling will come straight to you.”
“Touché. I’ll do that.”
A little dripping noise draws my attention.
My ear is attuned to any noise that could spell a gigantic, unexpected bill, so I watch the kitchen faucet, but it’s completely off.
It’s old and way behind the most recent kitchen faucet tech.
I meant to replace it before selling, but time got away from me.
Drip. Drip.
It’s coming from below the sink.
I look at Reese. “Is there a leak?”
“Just a little one.”
“Can I take a look?”
She shrugs. “Have at it.”
I set down the stack of mail to check out the inner workings of the sink cupboard. There’s an empty plastic container with a puddle of water in it below the u-bend. I fiddle with the pipes.
“I’ve gotta know,” Reese says, “did you leave your sweatshirt at Bree’s on purpose?”
“What?” I jerk upward and crack my head on the cabinet frame.
She winces and sucks in a sympathetic breath. “You okay?”
I rub it, then get back to work. “I’m fine. But no. I did not leave my sweatshirt there on purpose. I took it off because her house was, like, 85 degrees. I went to the bathroom, and when I came out, she was wearing it. Over underwear.”
Reese bites her lip.
“Hence the sweatshirt being left there.” I re-emerge from beneath the sink. “I wrote it off as a loss. A sad loss, but a necessary one.”
Reese leans against the counter, watching me. “A Cinderella’s glass slipper moment.”
“More like a Joseph and Potiphar’s wife moment.” I close the cupboard door and take the hand she offers me to help me up. For someone her size, she’s strong.
“You’ve got a bad seal,” I say. “Probably loosened with the cold weather. It’s not urgent, but I’d get it fixed sooner than later.”
She looks at me like I’ve just told her to dismantle a nuclear bomb.