Chapter 8
Micah
The server arrives with our food, setting down Harper’s turkey club and my chicken wrap with practiced efficiency. “Anything else I can get you two?”
“We’re good, thanks,” Harper says, already reaching for a fry.
The server walks away, and then it’s just us.
Harper takes a bite of her sandwich, and I unwrap my food slowly, buying myself time.
“So,” she says after swallowing, “what are your terms and conditions?”
“Right.” I set down my wrap, folding my hands on the table. “I have just one.”
“One? That’s it?”
“Yep.”
“Well…what is it?”
I hold eye contact. “No more grill jokes.”
She stares at me. “That’s your condition.”
“The parking lot thing was an accident.”
“Micah, you set asphalt on fire.”
“I set a small section of asphalt on fire.” I pick my wrap back up. “Anyway. That’s the condition.”
Harper looks at the ceiling for a moment, like she’s asking God for patience. “I have spent a week wondering what your conditions were going to be, and it’s the grill.”
“It’s important to me.”
“Fine.” She points at me. “Done. No more grill jokes.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re a strange person.”
“I’ve been told.” I take a bite.
“My turn.” She says, “I have some ground rules.”
“Let’s hear them.”
She pulls out her phone, swiping to what looks like a notes app. Of course she has notes.
“Okay, first things first.” She looks up at me, her expression all business now. “The gala is on March 21st. It’s the North Texas Education Gala—a big fundraiser, very formal. Dinner, dancing, silent auction. The whole thing.”
“Got it.” I lean back slightly. “And Collin will be there.”
“Yes.” Something flickers across her face—determination mixed with something else I can’t quite read. “He’s an assistant principal at my school, so he’s pretty much required to attend these things.”
“And the goal is...?”
She hesitates, then lifts her chin slightly. “To make him realize what he’s missing.”
I nod slowly, ignoring the way my stomach twists at that. “Okay. So we need to look like a couple. A convincing couple.”
“Exactly.” She takes another fry, pointing it at me for emphasis. “Which means we need to figure out what we’re comfortable with. Boundaries. Limits. You know.”
“Right.” I pick up my wrap, mostly to give my hands something to do. “So, what are you thinking?”
She scrolls through her notes. “Holding hands is fine. That’s like baseline couple behavior.”
“Agreed.”
“Arm around the waist, shoulder, that kind of thing—also fine.”
“Okay.”
“Dancing.” She glances up. “There will be dancing. Slow dancing. Are you okay with that?”
The image of Harper in a formal dress, my hand on her waist, swaying to music in a room full of people—yeah, I’m more than okay with that. But I can’t say that.
“I can handle dancing,” I say instead.
“Good.” She makes a note on her phone. “Because Collin hates dancing. He always made excuses to avoid it, and I love dancing.”
“Then we’ll dance,” I say, and something in my tone makes her look up.
Our eyes meet, and for a second, neither of us says anything.
Then she clears her throat and looks back at her phone. “Right. Okay. Um... terms of endearment?”
“What about them?”
“Do we use them? Like, do you call me babe or honey?”
I consider this, taking a bite of my wrap to buy time. “What did Collin call you?”
Her nose wrinkles slightly. “Nothing, really. Just Harper.”
“Freckles.”
The word comes out before I can stop it, and Harper’s head snaps up.
“What?”
“Freckles,” I repeat, committing to it now. “That’s what I’d call you.”
She blinks, clearly thrown off. “Why?”
I gesture vaguely toward her face. “Because you have them. Right here.” I point to my nose and cheeks. “They’re...I don’t know. They’re you.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. “That’s...that’s what you’d call me?”
“If this situation wasn’t fake,” I clarify, feeling my neck heat. “That’s what I would call you.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can’t read her expression.
Then she says quietly, “But it is fake.”
“Right.” I clear my throat, looking back down at my wrap. “So maybe something else. Something more...generic.”
“No.”
I glance up. “No?”
She picks up a fry, not meeting my eyes. “It’s... it’s actually kind of perfect. Different from what Collin would’ve done. Personal. People will believe it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” She finally looks at me, and there’s something soft in her expression. “Freckles works.”
“Okay. Freckles it is.”
We sit there for a moment, the weight of that decision settling between us.
Then Harper’s eyes narrow slightly, and she tilts her head. “Wait. So what do I call you?”
“What?”
“If you get to call me Freckles, I should get to call you something. Make it fair.”
I hadn’t thought about that. “You can just call me Micah.”
“Boring.” She taps her fingers on the table, studying me. “Have you ever had a girlfriend?”
“Yes, Harper, what kind of question is that?”
“Well, what did your ex call you?”
The question catches me off guard. “Uh...Micah. Just Micah.”
“See? Boring.” She leans forward, eyes scanning my face as if she’s searching for something. “You need something good. Something that matches Freckles.”
“I really don’t need—”
“Four eyes,” she announces, grinning.
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“What? It’s accurate.”
“It’s also what bullies called me in middle school.”
Her grin falters. “Oh. Really?”
“Really.”
“Well, that’s...unfortunate.” She sits back, reconsidering. “Okay, fine. Not four eyes.”
“Thank you.”
She goes quiet for a moment, still studying me, and I’m feeling like a specimen under a microscope.
Then she smiles. “Dimples.”
I freeze. “What?”
“You have them.” She points to her own cheeks. “Right here. When you smile. Which, by the way, you don’t do nearly enough.”
I know acutely that my face is heating. “You’ve been watching me smile?”
Her cheeks flush. “I’m observant. It’s a teacher thing.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So? Dimples. It’s only fair. You get Freckles, I get Dimples.” She leans back in her chair, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “It’s perfect, actually. Symmetrical.”
I should say no. Should tell her it’s unnecessary. Should point out that we’re supposed to be keeping this simple.
But the way she’s looking at me—like she’s genuinely proud of herself for coming up with it—makes it impossible to argue.
“Fine,” I say finally.
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it, Dimples.”
Her playful teasing, accompanied by that tiny smirk, evokes an unfamiliar reaction in me.
“It’s fine,” I manage.
“Just fine?”
“It works.”
She grins, victorious. “Good. Then it’s settled. Freckles and Dimples.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Harper clears her throat and looks back at her phone. “Right. Next thing on the list.”
But I can still see the faint blush on her cheeks.
And I know she’s thinking the same thing I am—that “Freckles” and “Dimples” doesn’t feel fake at all.
She makes another note, then pauses. “Okay, next thing. This is important.”
I straighten slightly. “What?”
She meets my eyes, her expression serious now. “Kissing.”
Every coherent thought scatters. “What about it?”
“We’re not doing it.”
Oh. Right.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
“I mean, like, on the cheek is fine. That’s normal couple stuff. But nothing... you know.” She waves her hand vaguely around her face. “Anything more than that is off-limits.”
“Got it. No kissing.”
“Because this is fake. And kissing would make it...not fake.”
“Makes sense.”
“Good.” She nods, as if she’s convinced herself as much as me. “So we agree. No kissing.”
“No kissing,” I repeat.
“Great.”
“Perfect.”
I clear my throat. “So, tell me about the gala. What’s the actual plan? Besides, you know, looking like a couple.”
She seems relieved by the subject change. “Okay. So the night starts with a cocktail hour—that’s when people mingle, check out the silent auction items, that kind of thing. That’s prime time for introducing you to people.”
“Who specifically?”
“My principal, definitely. Dr. Bailey. She’s great, very supportive. And probably the superintendent, if he’s there. Some of my colleagues.” She pauses. “And obviously Collin will see us during cocktail hour. That’s when we make the first impression.”
“First impression,” I echo. “So we need to look...”
“Happy,” she finishes. “Like we’re completely into each other. Like I’ve totally moved on and you’re the reason.”
“No pressure.”
She shoots me a look. “Do you want to help me or not?”
“I’m helping. I’m just clarifying expectations.”
“The expectation is that you look at me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
The words hang between us, and I have to fight the urge to say, that won’t be hard.
Instead, I take another bite of my wrap.
Harper continues, oblivious to the minor crisis happening in my head. “After cocktail hour, there’s dinner. Assigned seating, so we’ll be at a table wherever they place us, most likely with people I work with. More opportunities to sell the relationship.”
“Sell the relationship,” I repeat. “You make it sound like a business transaction.”
“It kind of is.” She shrugs. “I’m trading your time and acting skills for a chance to make my ex jealous. That’s a transaction.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
“It’s not supposed to be romantic, Micah. It’s supposed to be strategic.”
“Right. Strategic.” I lean forward slightly. “So what does strategic look like? During dinner, I mean.”
She thinks for a moment, twirling a fry between her fingers. “Little touches. Like, you can put your hand on mine when we’re talking. Or lean in close, like you’re telling me something private. Laugh at my jokes.”
“What if they’re not funny?”
“They’re always funny.”
“Debatable.”
She throws a fry at me. I catch it.
“See?” I pop it in my mouth. “Good reflexes. That’ll come in handy when you inevitably throw something at me during the gala.”
“I will not throw anything at you.”
“You just threw a fry at me.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“It was a strategic fry throw.”
I laugh and she grins, clearly pleased with herself.