Chapter 13
Micah
She’s wearing an emerald dress that fits her like it was designed specifically to destroy me.
My eyes go to her neckline. I attempt to correct course, but it’s too late.
The neckline drapes low enough that I notice, high enough that I feel guilty for noticing. Thin straps. A lot of bare shoulder. A gold bracelet stacked on her wrist that she’s already fidgeting with.
I look at her shoes. Strappy black heels that bring her almost level with my chin.
Her hair is swept up, soft and elegant, with loose curls escaping to frame her face in a way that makes my fingers ache to tuck them back.
Her makeup is understated but flawless—just enough to highlight the green of her eyes and the shape of her lips, but not enough to hide the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks like constellations I could spend a lifetime mapping.
And when her eyes meet mine, I swear the entire world tilts sideways.
She’s breathtaking.
No—she’s more than that.
She’s the kind of beautiful that makes you forget how to speak. How to breathe. How to do anything except stand there like an idiot and wonder how you got lucky enough to be standing in her doorway.
“Hi,” she says, a little breathless.
“Hi,” I manage, though it comes out rougher than I intended.
She steps further into the room, smoothing down the dress nervously. “So. What do you think? Too much?”
Too much?
She looks like she walked out of a dream.
“No,” I say, finding my voice. “You look... perfect.”
Her cheeks flush, and she glances away. “Thanks. You clean up pretty nice yourself.”
“Thanks.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I’m acutely aware of Ivy and Olivia watching us like we’re a live performance.
Then Harper’s eyes narrow slightly, and she tilts her head. “Wait. Where are your glasses?”
I blink. “What?”
“Your glasses.” She steps closer, studying my face like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “You’re not wearing them.”
“Oh.” I reach up automatically, like I’m going to adjust frames that aren’t there. “Contacts. I thought... I don’t know. Thought I’d switch it up.”
She’s close now. Close enough that I can smell whatever perfume she’s wearing—something floral and warm that’s making it hard to think straight.
Her hand lifts, almost without thought, and her fingers brush along my jaw, tilting my face down toward her.
I freeze.
Her touch is featherlight, but it sends electricity straight through me as her eyes scan my face.
“You look...” she trails off, her thumb grazing my cheekbone, and something flickers in her expression. Surprise. Maybe confusion. Maybe something else entirely that makes my heart kick against my ribs.
“Different,” she finishes quietly.
Her hand drops, but the heat of her touch lingers.
I’m still trying to remember how to breathe when I manage, “I didn’t realize they had such an effect on you, Harper.”
Her eyes snap to mine, and her cheeks flush. “They do not.”
“Clearly they do if you’re asking where they are.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it, then crosses her arms. “I was just making an observation.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s not like I care whether you wear glasses or contacts.”
“Right. You sound very indifferent.”
“I am indifferent.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not—” She catches herself, then narrows her eyes at me. “You’re enjoying this.”
I grin despite myself. “Maybe a little.”
Then her gaze drops to the gift bag still clutched in my hand. “What’s that?”
My stomach drops. “What’s what?”
“That,” she points. “The bag. Is that for me?”
“Oh. Uh. Yeah.” I hold it out awkwardly. “I was going to get flowers, but the florist was closed, and I panicked, so I went to the bookstore next door, and—” I’m rambling. “It’s nothing. Just... here.”
She takes the bag, eyebrows raised, and pulls out the tissue paper.
Inside is a simple leather journal. Brown cover, unlined pages, nothing fancy.
She opens it, flipping through the blank pages, and I see the exact moment she reaches the inside front cover.
Where I wrote something.
In pen.
That I can’t take back now.
Her eyes scan the words, and I want to disappear into the floor.
She looks up at me, blinking. “You got this for me?”
“I—yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” I run a hand through my hair.
“ I thought maybe you could use it for... I don’t know, notes or something, and then I was standing in line and I had a pen and it felt weird to give you a completely blank journal so I just—” I stop myself.
“I’m sorry. That was probably weird. I can get you something else—”
“Micah.” Her voice is softer now, and when I finally look at her, she’s smiling. “This is really sweet.”
“It is?”
“Yeah.” She runs her fingers over the cover. “I’ve been meaning to get a new journal anyway. For...studying. And stuff.”
There’s something in her tone—something almost vulnerable—that makes me pause.
“Are you sure it’s not weird?” I ask.
“It’s a little weird,” she admits. “But in a good way. A very you way.”
Ivy appears beside her, peeking at the journal. “What’d he write?”
Harper angles it so she can’t see, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Nothing. Just... something nice.”
“Let me see—”
“Nope.” Harper closes the journal quickly, clutching it to her chest. “This is mine now. No looking.”
Olivia leans against the wall, grinning. “He wrote something sappy, didn’t he?”
“I did not write something sappy,” I protest.
“You totally did,” Harper says, but she’s smiling. “Thank you. Really. This is... it’s perfect.”
Ivy clears her throat loudly, though she’s smiling too. “Okay, lovebirds. You should probably get going, or you’re going to be late.”
Harper shoots her a glare. “We’re not—”
“Yeah, yeah. Fake dating. We know.” Olivia waves her hand dismissively. “Now go. Have fun. Don’t do anything we wouldn’t do.”
Harper grabs her clutch from the coffee table, and I move toward the door.
But before we leave, Ivy catches my arm. “Take care of her,” she says quietly.
“I will,” I promise.
And I mean it.
The elevator ride down is quiet.
Harper’s fiddling with her clutch, and I’m trying not to stare at her in the reflection of the elevator doors.
When we step outside, the cool evening air hits us, and Harper shivers slightly.
I immediately shrug off my jacket. “Here.”
“Micah, you don’t have to—”
“I know.” I drape it over her shoulders anyway. “But I want to.”
She looks up at me, and for a moment she looks almost vulnerable. “Thanks.”
We walk to my truck, and I open the passenger door for her.
She pauses. “You know I can open my own door, right?”
“I know you can. But let me.”
She studies me for a moment, then smiles. “Okay.”
She climbs in, and I close the door behind her, taking a second to collect myself before walking around to the driver’s side.
When I slide into the seat, she’s adjusting the jacket around her shoulders—and then I catch it.
She leans in slightly, nose practically touching the lapel, and takes a deliberate breath.
I blink. “Did you just... smell that?”
Her head snaps up, eyes wide. “What? No.”
“You absolutely just smelled my jacket.”
“I did not.”
“Harper.”
“I was just—” she stops, her face flushing. “It’s not my fault you smell good.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “I smell good?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. It’s already there.”
She glares at me, but there’s no heat behind it. “Can we just go?”
“Sure,” I say, grinning like an idiot. “But for the record? You could’ve just asked what cologne I’m wearing.”
“I wasn’t—” she huffs, sinking deeper into my jacket. “Just drive, Micah.”
“Whatever you say, Harper.”
I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot, heading toward the hotel hosting the gala.
For the first few minutes, neither of us says anything.
Then Harper breaks the silence. “So. You ready for this?”
“Are you?”
She laughs, but it sounds nervous. “Not even a little.”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
She glances over at me. “Really? You seem so calm.”
“I’m very good at faking calm.”
Harper’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Thank you. For doing this. I know it’s a lot.”
“It’s not that much.”
“Micah, you’re spending your Saturday night pretending to be my boyfriend at a work event. That’s definitely a lot.”
I glance at her, then back at the road. “Maybe I don’t mind.”
She doesn’t respond right away, and when I glance over again, she’s looking out the window.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks quietly. “Really.”
I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “Because you asked.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“Sure it is.”
“Micah.”
I take a breath. “Because I don’t like the idea of you walking into that gala alone and feeling like you have to prove something to people who don’t deserve it.”
She turns to look at me, and I can feel the weight of her gaze.
“That’s...” she pauses. “That’s really sweet.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m not surprised. I just...” She trails off, then shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Just... thank you.”
We fall into silence again, but this time it feels different. Lighter, somehow.
The drive is familiar—streets I’ve driven a hundred times, buildings I know by heart. But tonight, everything feels different.
The hotel comes into view—a massive, glittering building in the heart of downtown, all glass and lights and elegance.
I pull up to the valet station, and a guy in a uniform steps forward immediately.
Harper’s eyes widen. “Valet. Fancy.”
“It’s a gala. We need to go all out.”
“Clearly.”
I put the truck in park, and the valet opens Harper’s door before I can get out.
She steps onto the curb, smoothing down her dress, and I hand the keys to the valet before walking around to meet her.
The hotel entrance is lit up with string lights and lanterns.
Harper takes a breath, slipping my jacket off and handing it to me, her hand tightening around her clutch.
“Are you okay?” I ask quietly, feeling her warmth as I slip my jacket back on.
“Yeah. Just... nervous.”
“Me too.”
She looks up at me, surprised. “Really?”
“Really.”
For a moment, we just stand there, looking at each other.
Then I hold out my arm. “Ready?”
She loops her arm through mine, and the contact sends a jolt through me that I try very hard to ignore.
“Ready,” she says, though her voice wavers slightly.
We walk toward the entrance together, the sounds of music and laughter drifting through the open doors.
And as we step inside, I send up one more prayer.
God, please let me not mess this up.
The lobby is even more extravagant than I expected.
Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting warm golden light over everything.
There’s a massive staircase leading up to the second floor, where I assume the actual gala is happening.
And everywhere I look, there are people—dressed to the nines, laughing, holding champagne glasses, looking like they belong here.
Harper’s grip on my arm tightens slightly.
“You good?” I murmur.
“Yeah. Just...a lot of people.”
“We don’t have to stay long if you don’t want to.”
She glances up at me. “Micah, we just got here.”
“I know. I’m just saying. If it gets overwhelming, we can leave.”
Something softens in her expression. “Thank you.”
We make our way toward the staircase, Harper’s heels clicking against the marble floor.
Halfway up, she stumbles slightly, and I catch her elbow.
“Careful.”
She laughs, embarrassed. “These heels are a death trap.”
“Then why wear them?”
“Because they make my legs look amazing.”
I glance down automatically—and immediately understand what she means.
The dress has a slit. A high slit that reveals way more leg than I was prepared for. Smooth, pale skin that disappears under emerald silk, and I have to physically force my eyes back up because looking is not appropriate. Not even close to appropriate.
Especially not when I’m supposed to be her fake date, not some creep who can’t control himself.
“Eyes up here, buddy,” she teases, and there’s laughter in her voice.
My face heats. “I wasn’t—”
“Relax. I’m messing with you.”
We begin to climb the staircase toward the ballroom.
Harper exhales slowly. “Okay. Here we go.”
“Here we go,” I echo.
She looks up at me, her eyes bright and nervous and determined all at once.
“Remember,” she says. “We’re a couple. We’re falling in love. We’re disgustingly happy.”
“Got it. Disgustingly happy.”
“And if you see Collin—”
“I know. Make him regret everything.”
She grins. “Exactly.”
We’re almost at the top when she pauses.
“Wait.”
I look down at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Hold my hand, Dimples.”
The nickname catches me completely off guard.
“What?”
“We’re supposed to be a couple, remember? Couples hold hands.” She says it matter-of-factly, but I can see the slight flush creeping up her neck. “So. Hold my hand.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course.”
I reach for her hand, and the moment our fingers touch, something shifts.
Her hand is smaller than mine—delicate, warm, soft in a way that catches me off guard. My palm engulfs hers easily, but when her fingers slide between mine, lacing together with a confidence that feels both natural and terrifying, it’s like every nerve ending in my body wakes up at once.
Her skin is impossibly soft. I can feel her pulse fluttering against my palm, quick and unsteady, matching the erratic rhythm of my own heartbeat.
This is fake, I remind myself. Just for show.
But the way her hand fits against mine—like two puzzle pieces that were always meant to click together—doesn’t feel fake. It feels right. Dangerously, overwhelmingly right.
She glances up at me, something unreadable flickering in her green eyes, and I wonder if she feels it too. This pull. This shift.
I squeeze her hand gently, and she squeezes back.
And I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Okay,” she says, looking up at me with those bright, determined eyes. “Now we look like a couple.”
You look like you belong on my arm, I think. Like you’ve always belonged there.
But I don’t say that.
Instead, I squeeze her hand gently. “Ready, Freckles?”
Her breath catches—sharp and surprised, and her fingers tighten around mine. When she looks up at me, there’s something in her eyes I can’t quite read. Something that wasn’t there a moment ago.
“You can’t just—” she stops, shaking her head slightly. “That felt real.”
It was real, I think.
But out loud, I force a casual shrug. “I’m just practicing this whole fake date thing, Harper. It’s not real.”
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
Her expression flickers before she nods. “Right. Of course. Just practicing.”
She squares her shoulders, and just like that, the walls go back up.
“Ready?” I ask again, softer this time.
She takes a shaky breath. “Ready.”
And together, hand in hand, we step into the ballroom—toward Collin, who is somewhere in this room, toward the plan, toward whatever happens next.
I just hope I survive it with my heart still intact.