3 #2
I step back to admire my work, then immediately feel ridiculous. They’re pillows. On a bed. For someone who’s going to sleep in this room for exactly two nights before flying back to her real life.
My phone buzzes again. Group chat.
Hurley:Is West’s girlfriend hot?
Reed: Dude.
Hurley:What? I’m asking for research.
G:You’re asking because you’re a caveman.
Hurley:I’m asking because I want to know if West found someone out of his league or below his league.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. How do I answer this? Liv is objectively attractive. I’m not blind, but saying yes feels weird. Like I’m rating my fake girlfriend for my teammates’ entertainment.
I type: She’s beautiful.
Which is true. And also completely inadequate. Liv isn’t just beautiful; she’s the kind of beautiful that makes you forget what you were saying mid-sentence. The kind of beautiful that made seventeen-year-old me walk into a glass door because I was too busy staring at her in a bikini.
Not that I’m thinking about Liv in a bikini.
I’m definitely not thinking about Liv in a bikini.
Fuck.
Reed:Can’t wait to meet her.
G:Same. I want to see who finally tamed the West Carmack.
Tamed? I’m not a wild animal. I’m just... selectively social.
My phone buzzes with the couples group chat notification. I glance at it, expecting another wine tasting invitation or someone asking about double date availability.
Instead, it’s Chelsea, Reed’s fiancé.
Chelsea:Hey everyone! Quick question for the plus-ones - any dietary restrictions I should know about for the reception? Trying to finalize headcount with the caterer.
I stare at the message, panic rising in my throat.
Dietary restrictions. I should know if Liv has dietary restrictions. I’m supposed to be in love with this woman and I don’t know if she’s allergic to shellfish.
Reed: My girl is considerate. Respect.
Hurley:Lana will eat literally anything. She’s not picky.
G: No
The cursor blinks in the message box, waiting for my response. What do I say? I can’t ask Liv now. She’s on a plane. “Hey, fake girlfriend, do you have any food allergies I should know about for our fake relationship?”
West:I’ll check with Liv and get back to you.
Chelsea:No rush! Just need to know by tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow morning. When Liv will be here. When we’ll be pretending this is all real.
I stare at my phone, realizing I don’t know basic facts about her life.
I grab my laptop and do something that’s probably either very smart or completely psychotic: I Google her.
Olivia Rodriguez freelance journalist.
Her LinkedIn pops up first. Freelance writer and content creator. Based in LA. Experience in digital marketing, lifestyle content, and entertainment journalism.
Good. I can work with that.
Her Instagram is private, but her Twitter is public. Mostly retweets of political stuff and complaints about the entertainment industry. Recent tweet: “Just got replaced by AI. Again. Apparently my ‘human perspective’ is ‘less cost-effective’ than a computer program. Cool.”
Okay, so she’s having career troubles. That explains the money situation.
I scroll back further. A photo from Tessa’s birthday last year. Liv’s in a green dress, laughing at something off-camera, and she looks... happy. Relaxed. Nothing like the stressed, financially-anxious person who agreed to this insane scheme.
Another photo from Christmas. She’s wearing an ugly sweater that says “Jingle My Bells” and flipping off the camera. Classic Liv.
I close the laptop, feeling like a creep for internet-stalking my fake girlfriend.
By 11 PM, I’ve cleaned the guest bathroom twice, changed the sheets three times, and rearranged the throw pillows approximately seventeen different ways.
The fridge is stocked with enough food to survive a natural disaster, and I’ve practiced my “how we got together” story so many times that I almost believe it myself.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the fact that in less than sixteen hours, Liv will be here. In my house. Pretending to be my girlfriend.
This is either the best idea I’ve ever had or the worst.
4
The problem with traveling next to a man who apparently bathes in garlic and regret is that you start to question every life choice that led you to this moment.
Including the one where you agreed to fake-date your best friend’s brother for money.
I’m shuffling through the airport in my travel uniform—oversized hoodie, leggings with a questionable stain, and a greasy ponytail that screams “I gave up on life somewhere over Nevada” when I spot West waiting by the baggage claim.
And I immediately want to turn around and catch the next flight back to LA.
Because what the actual hell happened to him?
When did West Carmack get... hot? Like, genuinely, devastatingly, “I need to sit down and rethink my entire existence” hot?
The last time I saw him in person was Tessa’s wedding three years ago, and he was cute in that annoying frat-boy way. Good hair, good smile, the kind of guy who probably owned too many pairs of khakis.
This West is something else entirely.
This West has a good jawline and forearms that are doing things to his rolled-up sleeves that should probably be illegal in several states. This West looks like he stepped out of some athletic wear commercial where attractive people do impossible things with protein shakes.
This is a problem.
A big problem.
Because I’m supposed to pretend to be attracted to him, not actually be attracted to him.
He sees me and raises his hand in a half-wave, and I notice he’s standing too straight, like he’s trying to convince himself this is normal.
“Hey,” he says when I reach him.
“Hey.”
We stand there for a beat. Neither of us moves to hug or do whatever normal people do when they pick someone up from the airport.
“How was your flight?” he asks, reaching for my suitcase handle.
“Fine,” I say, letting him take it even though I’m perfectly capable of wheeling my own luggage. “Long.”
“Yeah, it’s a long flight.”
“Yeah.”
More silence. This is excruciating.
“Should we...” he gestures toward the parking garage.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
We walk through the airport, and I can feel the awkwardness radiating off both of us like heat waves. Every step feels deliberate, like we’re both hyperaware of how we’re moving, how close we’re standing, how absolutely bizarre this entire situation is.
He leads me to a black SUV that’s exactly what I expected him to drive and opens the passenger door for me. I slide into the seat and the interior smells like a brand new car.
He gets in the driver’s seat and starts the car, and soft indie music fills the space.
He turns the music down but doesn’t change it.
We pull out of the parking garage into the Seattle drizzle, and I put on my sunglasses more out of habit than necessity, staring out the window at the evergreen trees and coffee shops sliding past.
“So,” I say after what feels like an eternity of silence, “tell me about this wedding. What should I expect?”
“It’s Reed and Chelsea’s. Pretty casual. They’re doing it at some park with a reception at the community center.”
“Got it. Casual.”
“Yeah.”
I watch the city sprawl past us, all green spaces and mountains in the distance. “How many people?”
“Maybe a hundred and fifty? Something like that.”
“And your teammates will be there?”
“Most of them. The core group, anyway.”
“Cool.”
We lapse into silence again. I can feel him glancing at me out of the corner of my eye, like he’s trying to figure out what to say next.
“How’s, uh,” he starts, then stops. “How’s work going?”
“Good,” I lie, because I’m not about to unpack my career crisis with someone I haven’t seen in forever.
But I stiffen, remembering that he’s paying me to be here.
Nothing screams desperate like being paid to fake-date your best friend’s brother.
I regroup, “It has its ups and downs. We’re in a slow season right now.
” I swallow the lump in my throat because is there seriously a slow season in the online space?
I suck in a breath, awkwardly and mutter, “Yeah.”
“What are you working on lately?”
“Oh, you know. Different things. Freelance stuff.”
“Right. Freelance.”
Jesus Christ, we sound like aliens trying to have a human conversation.
“How’s hockey?” I ask, because that feels like safe territory.
“Good. Season’s over. Now it’s just training and off-season stuff.”
“That must be nice. Having time off.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“Do you miss it? When you’re not playing?”
He considers this, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Sometimes. But it’s also nice to have a life outside of hockey for a few months.”
“What does that look like? Life outside of hockey?”
“I don’t know. Normal stuff. Sleeping in. Grocery shopping. Gym.”
“Very normal.”
“The most normal.”
The tension breaks slightly, and I feel like I can breathe again. Maybe we can do this. Maybe we can pretend to be normal human beings.
“So what’s the game plan?” I ask. “How long have we been together? How did we get together? Basic logistics.”
“Four months. We met through Tessa, spent some time together, realized we had feelings.”
“Feelings,” I repeat.
“Yeah.”
“What kind of feelings?” I tease.
“I don’t know. The regular kind?”
“Okay, the regular kind.”
I glance at him, and he’s nervously scratching his head.
We drive through neighborhoods that get progressively nicer, all manicured lawns and houses that look like they belong on HGTV. I try not to think about what his mortgage payment must be or how different our lives are.
“This is me,” he says, turning into a driveway that leads to a house that’s exactly what I expected. It’s modern, clean, probably worth more than I’ll make in my entire lifetime.
We sit in the car for a moment after he parks, both of us staring at the house like it’s going to give us instructions on how to proceed.
“Well,” he says finally.
“Well.”
“This is really happening.”
“Thanks for coming out,” he says softly.
I nod. “Thanks for hiring me.” My stomach goes on a rollercoaster ride and then I continue, “Out of the millions you work hard for.”
He glances at me and then his eyes dart to the front door.
We get out of the car, and I follow him through the garage into a mudroom that’s cleaner than my entire apartment. He sets my suitcase down and runs a hand through his hair.
“You want something to drink?” he asks. “I have pretty much everything.”
“Water’s fine.”
He opens the fridge, and I can see what he means. It’s packed like he’s preparing for the apocalypse. Multiple types of juice, fancy water, energy drinks, wine, beer.
“Did you buy out the entire grocery store?” I tease.
He shrugs with a smile. “I wanted options.”
He hands me a bottle of the fancy kind with a French name, and I notice his hands are slightly shaky. He’s nervous. Which is oddly comforting.
“So,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Do you want to see your room?”
“Sure.”
He grabs my suitcase and leads me down a hallway lined with actual art pieces. Not posters, but real paintings that are probably originals. They’re really beautiful. We walk mostly in silence, our footsteps echoing on the hardwood.
“Here,” he says, opening a door at the end of the hall.
I step inside and immediately stop.
The room is... perfect.
Not just clean but thoughtfully arranged.
The bed has more pillows than any human could ever need, arranged in a way that looks effortless but probably took him twenty minutes to get right.
There’s a small basket on the dresser filled with snacks—good snacks, the kind I actually like.
Trail mix with the right ratio of nuts to chocolate.
Extra chocolate. Crackers. A bottle of wine that’s definitely not from the grocery store bargain bin.
“West,” I say slowly.
“Yeah?”
“This is really nice. Thank you.” I set my purse down on the bed and immediately regret noticing how expensive the sheets feel under my hands.
“I’ll let you get settled,” he says, backing toward the door. “Dinner in an hour? I was thinking of ordering pizza.”
“Pizza sounds good.”
“Any preferences? Toppings you hate?”
“Just no pineapple. I’m not a monster.”
He grins, and for a second, he looks like the West I remember from when we were kids. Before things got complicated.
“Got it. No pineapple.”
He closes the door behind him, and I’m alone in a room that feels like a luxury hotel suite designed specifically to make me comfortable.
Which is a problem.
I sit on the edge of the bed and look around at the evidence of his thoughtfulness. The wine that’s exactly the type I like. The snacks that are somehow my favorites. The way the late afternoon light filters through the curtains just right.
This was supposed to be simple. Show up, play a part, collect a paycheck.
It wasn’t supposed to involve him actually caring whether I’m comfortable.
It wasn’t supposed to involve me noticing that he’s gotten really, really attractive.
And it definitely wasn’t supposed to involve me starting to wonder what it would be like if this were real.