Chapter 15
Micah
We’re weaving through the ballroom toward the seating chart, her arm looped through mine, when she halts.
“There,” she says, pointing to a display board near the entrance. “Table seven.”
Harper Mitchell, Micah Sanders, Dr. Mariah Bailey, Shawn Bailey, Collin Matthews, Jessica Brennan
Harper sees it at the same moment I do.
“No.” Her voice is tight. “No, no, no. We’re sitting with Collin?”
“Looks like it.”
“And Dr. Bailey.” She’s spiraling now, her breathing picking up. “Oh my gosh, Micah, I can’t—I can’t sit through an entire dinner with both of them watching us. What if we mess up? What if they notice we’re faking? What if—”
“Harper.” I turn to face her, gently taking both her hands. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing.”
“You’re panicking.”
“I’m not—” she stops, exhaling shakily. “Okay, maybe I’m panicking a little.”
“We’re going to be fine,” I say, squeezing her hands. “We’ve been doing great so far. Everyone believes us.”
“But, Collin—”
“Collin is just another person at the table. That’s it.”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide and uncertain, and I can see her trying to convince herself. But the panic is still there, written all over her face.
I need to get her out of her head. Give her something else to focus on.
My gaze drifts across the room, and I spot it—a small photo booth tucked between two floral arrangements, velvet curtain drawn back, a sign reading:
CAPTURE THE MOMENT.
Perfect.
“Come on,” I say, tugging her hand gently.
“What? Where—”
“Photo booth.” I nod toward the corner. “We’re doing it.”
She blinks. “Right now?”
“Yes, now. Before dinner. Before you spiral any more than you already have.” I pull her toward it. “Come on, Freckles. You need a distraction.”
“Micah, I don’t think—”
“Too late. Already decided.”
Her resistance falters, and I catch the tiniest hint of a smile breaking through her panic. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re overthinking.” I guide her toward the booth, and she doesn’t pull away. “Let’s go be a fake couple and take some terrible photos.”
She laughs—actually laughs—and just like that, some of the tension drains from her shoulders.
“Okay,” she says, squeezing my hand. “Let’s do it.”
The photo booth is smaller than it looked from across the room.
Harper slides onto the bench first, tugging me in after her, and suddenly we’re pressed together in a space that feels about two sizes too small.
“Okay,” she says, slightly breathless. “How does this work?”
I lean forward and press the start button on the screen. “Looks like we get four photos. Three seconds between each one.”
“Perfect.” She shifts closer, and I keenly notice her shoulder touching mine and the floral, sweet smell of her hair.
The screen counts down.
3... 2... 1...
FLASH.
For the first photo, Harper makes a silly face—crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue. I laugh and throw up bunny ears behind her head.
3... 2... 1...
FLASH.
Second photo: she’s mid-laugh, and I’m grinning at her instead of the camera because watching her laugh is better than any photo.
3... 2... 1...
FLASH.
Third photo: we both try to do serious faces, but she cracks first, and we’re both laughing again.
Then the countdown starts for the fourth photo.
3...
Harper turns to look at me, still smiling.
2...
And suddenly, we’re very close.
Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes.
1...
FLASH.
The camera captures us like that—staring at each other, caught in a moment that feels too real, too charged, too much like something that shouldn’t be happening in a fake relationship.
Harper doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
We just sit there, looking at each other, the sounds of the gala fading into background noise.
“Harper,” I say quietly, though I’m not sure what I’m planning to say next.
She blinks, breaking the moment, and quickly slides out of the booth. “We should grab the photos.”
“Right. Yeah.”
I follow her out, and we wait by the printer as it spits out two strips of photos.
Harper grabs hers first, studying them with a soft smile.
I take mine and look at the sequence: silly, laughing, serious, and then... that last one.
The one where we’re looking at each other a little too long to be just friends.
Harper tucks her strip carefully into her purse, and I slide mine into my jacket pocket.
“Okay,” she says, smoothing down her dress. “I’m ready now. Let’s go face the table of doom.”
I chuckle despite myself. “Table of doom?”
“You’ll see.”
Table seven is already partially occupied when we arrive.
Mariah is there, along with an older couple I don’t recognize. And across from them, sitting side by side, are Collin and the girl from earlier.
Harper’s hand tightens around mine as we approach.
“Harper!” Mariah says, smiling warmly. “We were wondering when you’d make it over. Please, sit.”
We take the two empty seats—Harper next to Mariah, me beside her.
Which puts us directly across from Collin and the blonde in the red dress.
Up close, I can see Collin more clearly. He’s polished, put-together, the kind of guy who looks like he stepped out of a business magazine.
I met him once—briefly, at Gray and Ivy’s Christmas party. He’d been Harper’s boyfriend then, standing at her side with his phone glued to his hand and barely making any conversation.
But now, looking at him across this table, I see him differently.
There’s something guarded in his expression as he looks at Harper—like he’s already regretting coming over here. Like seeing her with someone else makes him uncomfortable in a way he wasn’t prepared for.
Good.
“Collin,” Harper says, her voice carefully neutral. “Hi.”
“Harper.” He nods, then glances at me, his brow furrowing slightly. “And you must be...?”
“Micah Sanders,” I say, extending my hand across the table. “Harper’s boyfriend.”
He shakes my hand, and his grip is firm. Professional. “Collin Matthews. Assistant principal at Harper’s school.”
His eyes narrow slightly, studying my face. “Haven’t we met before?”
I pause, pretending to think about it. “Don’t think so.”
“I’m pretty sure we have. Last Christmas? Gray and Ivy’s party?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say with a casual shrug.
Collin’s jaw tightens slightly, and I can see it register—the sting of being forgettable. Not worth remembering.
“Huh,” he says, releasing my hand. “Must be mistaken.”
There’s a beat of awkward silence, and I can feel Harper’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at her.
Good. Let him feel what it’s like to not matter.
Then the blonde speaks up, her voice bright and loud. “I’m Jessica! Collin’s girlfriend. Well, technically we’ve known each other since we were kids, but we just started dating recently, which is so funny because—”
She keeps talking, but I’m watching Harper.
She’s staring at Jessica like she’s seeing a ghost. Or maybe like she’s solving a puzzle she doesn’t want the answer to.
I reach under the table and squeeze her hand.
She squeezes back, hard.
“Anyway,” Jessica finishes, laughing at her own story, “it’s so great to finally meet you, Harper! Collin’s mentioned you.”
“Has he?” Harper’s smile is plastic.
Mariah, bless her, jumps in with a question about the silent auction, and the conversation shifts.
But I can feel the tension radiating off Harper.
Dinner is served shortly after—some kind of chicken with roasted vegetables I’m sure is delicious, but I can barely taste it.
Because Harper is watching me.
Every time I answer a question from Mariah or make small talk with the older couple, I can feel her eyes on me. Studying. Assessing.
And I can feel Collin’s eyes on us too.
Finally, during a lull in conversation, I lean close—close enough that my breath brushes her ear—and murmur, “You know, I enjoy catching you looking at me.”
Her eyes widen, snapping to mine. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” I say, letting my voice drop lower, more intimate. Playing it up for the audience I know is watching.
Her cheeks flush pink, and she looks away, but I catch her chin gently, tilting her face back toward mine. Making sure Collin can see every second of this.
“You’re imagining things,” she whispers, but her voice is breathless now.
“Am I?”
She doesn’t answer, but the blush deepens, spreading down her neck, and I catch the exact moment Collin’s jaw tightens across the table.
Perfect.
I let my thumb graze her cheek once before pulling back, and when I glance at Collin, he’s staring at us like he’s trying to figure out what we just said.
Mission accomplished.
Across the table, Jessica is back to talking—something about a trip she and Collin took to Austin—and I notice Harper’s gaze drift toward them.
She’s comparing herself. I can see it in the way her shoulders tense, the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
And I hate it.
Because Harper is brilliant. Funny. Fiery. She lights up every room she walks into, challenges everyone around her to be better, and has more life in her little finger than most people have in their entire bodies.
And she has no idea.
She’s sitting here, doubting herself, measuring her worth against someone else—when the truth is, there’s no comparison. Not even close.
But she doesn’t see that.
She only sees what she thinks she’s missing.
After dinner, the band starts playing, and couples filter onto the dance floor.
Mariah and her husband are one of the first. Then the older couple. Then Jessica practically drags Collin out of his seat.
“Come on,” she says, laughing. “You promised you’d dance with me tonight.”
Collin looks reluctant but follows.
And then it’s just Harper and me, sitting at an empty table.
“We should dance,” I say.
She looks at me, surprised. “You want to?”
“That’s the point, isn’t it? Put on a show?”
“Right.” She stands, smoothing down her dress. “The show.”
I offer my hand, and she takes it.
The dance floor is crowded, warm, and filled with couples swaying to a slow jazz standard. I guide Harper to a spot near the edge, then pull her close.
One hand on her waist. The other holding hers.
She fits against me perfectly.
We start to sway, moving in time with the music, and for a moment, it’s just us.
No Collin. No Jessica. No performance.
Just Harper in an emerald dress, looking up at me with those bright green eyes.
“Thank you,” she says suddenly.
“For what?”
“For being here. For doing this. For not making me feel crazy.”
“You’re not crazy.”
“I feel crazy.”
“You’re not,” I repeat, more firmly this time. “You’re hurt. There’s a difference.”
Her eyes soften, and she rests her head against my chest.
And I let myself have this.
Just for a moment.
I let myself imagine that this is real. That we’re not pretending. That when the night ends, she’ll still look at me like this.
But then I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
Collin.
He’s dancing with Jessica a few feet away, but he’s not looking at her.
He’s looking at us.
At Harper.
And there’s something in his expression—regret, maybe. Or longing.
Harper must notice too, because she shifts slightly, pressing closer to me.
“He’s watching,” she murmurs.
“I know.”
“Good.”
The song ends, and another begins.
We keep dancing.
And I keep wishing this was real.