Chapter 12
Micah
I’ve changed my shirt three times.
Which is ridiculous because it’s a navy suit. The shirts are all white. There are exactly zero creative decisions to be made here.
But somehow, the first shirt felt too formal. The second one had a wrinkle I couldn’t get out. And now I’m standing in front of my bathroom mirror in shirt number three, wondering if I should just give up and wear a paper bag.
Biscuit chitters from his perch on the bathroom counter, watching me with what I swear is judgment.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I mutter, adjusting my collar for the fourth time.
He sniffs, then scurries down and disappears into the hallway.
Even my ferret thinks I’m being ridiculous.
I stare at my reflection, trying to recognize the guy looking back at me.
Navy suit. White shirt. Tie that I wore to Ivy and Gray’s wedding that apparently Harper says will match her dress perfectly. Hair that I’ve tried to style three different ways and finally gave up on.
I look... fine.
Not great. Not impressive. Just fine.
And somehow, I’m supposed to walk into a gala full of Dallas’s education elite and convince everyone that Harper Mitchell—brilliant, beautiful, completely-out-of-my-league Harper…chose me.
God, I really hope You know what You’re doing here.
I check my watch. 4:12 p.m.
Harper’s expecting me at five.
Flowers. I should bring flowers.
The thought settled in my mind sometime around 2 a.m. last night when I couldn’t sleep. Because showing up empty-handed to pick up your fake girlfriend for a gala feels wrong, even if the relationship isn’t real.
I do the mental math quickly. Ten minutes to the florist on Main Street.
Maybe another ten to pick out flowers—no, probably fifteen because I have no idea what I’m looking for and I’ll definitely overthink it.
Then five minutes to wait in line and pay, assuming there’s not a crowd.
Then another ten minutes from the florist to Harper’s apartment, but it’s Friday evening, so traffic could add another five or ten minutes.
I check my watch again. 4:18 now.
If I leave right now, I’ll have just enough time. Forty-five minutes should cover it. But barely. And I’d rather show up five minutes early than five minutes late.
I walk back to my bedroom and catch my reflection in the mirror above my dresser.
Navy suit. White shirt. Green tie perfectly straight.
And my glasses—thick clear frames that Gray once described as “aggressively nerdy in the best way possible.”
I’ve worn glasses since middle school. They’re part of my face at this point. I don’t even think about them anymore.
But tonight...
I stare at my reflection, studying the guy looking back at me.
He looks like Micah. Regular, everyday Micah who runs children’s ministry and makes dad jokes and color-codes his calendar.
But tonight, I need to be the version of Micah who belongs on Harper Mitchell’s arm at a fancy gala. The version who doesn’t look out of place next to a girl who makes heads turn.
I walk to my bathroom and grab the contacts from the drawer, then reach up and slowly take off my glasses, setting them on the counter.
I almost never wear contacts. They’re annoying, and honestly, I like my glasses. But something about tonight feels different. Like I need to show up as a different version of myself.
The version that belongs on Harper’s arm.
I wrestle the contacts in—blinking about seventeen times and nearly poking myself in the eye twice—and finally straighten to look in the mirror.
Different.
Definitely different.
I’m not sure if it’s better, but it’s something.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Gray
You good?
I huff out a laugh and type back.
Micah
Define good.
Gray
Not having a panic attack.
Micah
Then no. Not good.
Gray
You’re going to be fine. Just be yourself.
Micah
What if myself isn’t enough?
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then appear again.
Gray
Micah. She asked YOU. Not anyone else. You. That means something.
I stare at the message, wanting to believe it.
Micah
She asked me to make her ex jealous. That’s different.
Gray
Is it though?
I don’t respond.
Gray
Look, I’m not saying this is going to be easy. But you’re going to show up, be the guy you’ve always been, and let God handle the rest. Trust the process.
Micah
I hate when you’re right.
Gray
Get used to it. Now go pick up your girl and stop overthinking.
Micah
She’s not my girl.
Gray
Sure, Micah. Keep telling yourself that.
I pocket my phone, take one last look in the mirror, and start out the door.
Then I pause.
My glasses.
I turn back and grab them from the counter. The last thing I need is these contacts irritating my eyes on the drive home later. I tuck the case into my jacket pocket, just in case.
Now I’m ready.
Biscuit appears out of nowhere, weaving between my feet like he’s trying to trip me.
“I’ll be back later,” I tell him, crouching down to scratch behind his ears. “Behave.”
He chitters, which I’m choosing to interpret as agreement.
I grab my keys, check my reflection one more time in the entryway mirror, and step outside.
The March evening air is crisp; the sky already darkening into shades of purple and orange. I unlock my truck and slide into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel for a moment before starting the engine.
Okay, God. Here we go.
I pull out of the driveway and head toward the florist, my mind racing through every possible scenario for tonight.
What if we look awkward together?
What if I say something stupid?
What if Collin takes one look at us and knows we’re faking?
What if Harper realizes halfway through the night that this was a terrible idea and bails?
I force myself to take a breath, loosening my grip on the steering wheel.
One step at a time. Just show up. Be present.
By the time I pull into Harper’s apartment complex, my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
4:58 p.m.
I’m late.
Two minutes isn’t technically late, but to me it feels like a catastrophic failure of planning.
Which is entirely the florist’s fault.
Closed for a private event.
That’s what the sign on the door said when I showed up at 4:30. Apparently, some wedding reception booked out the entire shop for the evening, and I stood there on the sidewalk for a solid thirty seconds just staring at the sign like it might change if I willed it hard enough.
It didn’t.
So I panicked.
And when you panic on Main Street at 4:30 on a Friday evening with no backup plan, you make questionable decisions.
Like walking into the bookstore next door.
I glance at the passenger seat where a small gift bag sits, tissue paper sticking out the top.
It’s not flowers.
But it’s something.
I grab the bag, kill the engine, and step out of the truck, my pulse still doing something erratic.
Please let this not be weird. Please let this not be weird.
I head toward her building, the gift bag clutched in one hand like it might explode if I hold it wrong.
The elevator ride up feels like it takes approximately seventeen years.
When I finally reach her door, I stand there for a second, smoothing down my jacket, checking my breath, looking down at the gift bag and wondering if I should just leave it in the truck and pretend I didn’t bring anything at all—the door swings open before I can knock.
Olivia stands there, iced coffee in hand, and her eyes widen slightly.
“Wow.” She blinks. “Okay. Yeah, you clean up nice.”
I feel my neck heat. “Thanks. Is Harper ready?”
“Almost. Come in.”
She steps aside, and I walk into Harper’s apartment.
It smells like lavender—probably whatever candle she has burning on the coffee table. The space is tidy, everything in its place, and I’m momentarily distracted by how very Harper it all is.
Colorful throw pillows. Books stacked on the side table. A half-empty coffee mug that says:
I TEACH TINY HUMANS,
WHAT’S YOUR SUPERPOWER?
“She’ll be out in a second,” Olivia says, studying me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“Okay. Yeah. No rush.”
Except there’s definitely a rush and I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out if I have to stand here much longer.
Ivy appears from the hallway, smiling warmly. “Micah! You look great.”
“Thanks.” I shift my weight, suddenly hyperaware of how formal I feel. “You too.”
She laughs. “I’m in jeans and a sweater, but I appreciate the sentiment.”
Olivia leans against the wall, still watching me. “So. You ready for this?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good answer.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “Because Harper’s been spiraling all day, so you’re going to need to be the calm one.”
“Got it. Calm. I can do calm.”
Ivy grins. “You look calm.”
“I’m faking it.”
“Aren’t we all?” Olivia mutters.
Before I can respond, I hear footsteps from the hallway.
And then Harper appears.
And I forget how to breathe.