6
I wake up to the sound of something sizzling downstairs and the scent of coffee drifting through the house.
For a moment, I forget where I am. Then I remember: fake girlfriend duties, expensive guest room, and the fact that West Carmack is apparently cooking breakfast.
My hair looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket, and there’s a pillow crease running down half my face. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and immediately start damage control.
This is ridiculous. He’s seen me look worse. We’ve known each other for fifteen years. He’s seen me with sick with the flu, braces, and that unfortunate phase where I thought crimping my hair was a good idea.
But that was before. Before jawlines and forearms and whatever pheromones he’s apparently been upgraded with.
I brush my teeth, attempt to tame my hair into something resembling intentional, and throw on jeans and a sweater. Casual but not “I just rolled out of bed” casual.
When I get downstairs, West is standing at the stove, flipping what appears to be actual pancakes. Not the frozen kind. The from-scratch kind that require measuring and mixing and giving a damn.
“Morning,” he says without turning around, like he has some kind of radar for when I enter a room.
“Morning.” I pour myself coffee from the pot. It’s not too strong, not too weak. “You don’t have to cook for me.”
He goes quiet, spatula frozen mid-flip. “I know.”
“I mean, I appreciate it. But this isn’t part of the deal.”
“Right.” His voice is flat. “The deal.”
Shit. I didn’t mean to make it sound transactional. Except it is transactional. That’s literally what this is. I just feel bad for all the effort he’s put into this. I can tell he’s panicking.
“I just meant—”
“It’s fine,” he says, sliding pancakes onto a plate. “I was making them anyway.”
We eat at the kitchen island, and the conversation flows slightly better than last night.
He tells me about his off-season training routine.
I tell him about the freelance article I’m supposed to be writing about sustainable fashion, which is ironic since I’m about to go shopping for a dress I’ll wear once.
“Ready for some retail therapy?” he asks, loading our plates into the dishwasher.
“Define ready.”
“I thought we’d hit Target first. They have a decent selection.”
I stare at him. “Target?”
“Yeah. One-stop shopping. Convenient.”
“West. Target is not a boutique.”
“It’s not?”
“No. It’s where you buy toilet paper and pillows.”
“I buy good stuff at Target.”
“You buy clothes for a wedding at Target?” I question, doubting it.
“They have good clothes.”
“West. This is a wedding. Your friends are going to be there. I need to look like someone you’d actually date, not someone you picked up at Super Target.”
He looks genuinely confused, which is oddly endearing. “Where do normal people buy clothes?”
“The mall. Department stores. Places that have fitting rooms with actual mirrors.”
“Target has fitting rooms.”
“True, but…”
“The weddings casual,” he says, grabbing his keys. “Let’s try Target first. Maybe you’ll be surprised.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the women’s section of Target, surrounded by racks of dresses that range from “suburban mom” to “teenage prom disaster.”
“See?” West says, holding up a floral sundress. “Options.”
“That dress is having an identity crisis.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It can’t decide if it wants to be cute or conservative or fun. It’s trying to be everything and succeeding at nothing.”
“You’re very judgmental about clothes.”
I grab a few dresses that seem like they might work and head to the fitting room, which is exactly as grim as I predicted. The lighting makes me look like I have jaundice, and the mirror is slightly warped.
The first dress makes me look like I’m cosplaying as a 1950s housewife. The second one is too tight in weird places and too loose in others. The third one might work if I were attending a funeral.
“How’s it going in there?” West calls from outside the fitting room.
“I look like I’m auditioning for a role in a tragedy.”
“Can I see?”
I step out in the least offensive dress. It’s navy blue, simple, inoffensive to the point of being boring.
“What do you think?” I ask, doing a half-hearted spin.
“It’s nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yeah. Nice.”
“That’s not helpful, West.”
“You look good.”
“I look like I’m going to a business meeting.”
“You look professional.”
“I’m not trying to look professional. I’m trying to look like your girlfriend.”
“You look like my girlfriend.”
“Your girlfriend dresses like she works in accounting?”
“My girlfriend is beautiful and would look good in anything.”
I freeze. The way he says it, like he actually means it, makes something flutter in my chest.
“Even a paper bag?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
“Even a paper bag.”
I roll my eyes, but I can feel heat creeping up my neck. “That’s ridiculous.”
I retreat back into the fitting room before he can see me blush, and while I’m changing back into my clothes, I do something I’m not proud of.
I Google “malls near me.”
“You know what?” I say, emerging from the fitting room. “None of these are quite right. Maybe we should check out the mall. Just to see what else is out there.
“I thought you said we could find something here.”
“I said we could try. Trying and succeeding are different things.”
He sighs, but he doesn’t argue. “Fine. The mall it is.”
The mall is exactly what I expected. Bright, overwhelming, and full of stores that actually specialize in clothes that don’t also sell groceries.
West, on the other hand, looks like he’s been dropped into unknown territory.
“Are you okay?” I ask as we walk past the food court as people stare at him.
“It’s just... loud and everyone’s staring.”
“It’s Friday. This is normal mall volume.” I notice everyone is staring at him, but I get it. He’s tall. He stands out. His aura screams athlete.
“How do people shop in this chaos?” he asks.
“Practice. And caffeine.”
We hit three stores before I find a wrap dress in a soft green that actually fits like it was made for me. It’s simple but flattering, appropriate but not boring.
“This one,” I say, stepping out of the fitting room.
West’s reaction is immediate and obvious. His eyes widen slightly, and he goes very still.
“Good?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Good.”
“You sure? You don’t have to say it’s good if it’s not good.”
“It’s good, Liv. Really good.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me believe him.
“Great. Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn?”
“You can’t wear a hockey jersey to a wedding, West. You need something nice.”
“I have nice clothes.”
I lead him to the men’s store where everything looks like a preppy businessman wardrobe, and I start pulling button-downs off the racks.
“Try this,” I say, handing him a light blue shirt.
“I don’t need—”
“You do need. Trust me.”
He disappears into the fitting room, and when he emerges, I have to actively remind myself to breathe.
The shirt fits him perfectly. It brings out his eyes and makes his shoulders look somehow even broader.
“How’s this?” he asks, adjusting the collar.
“Good. Try the gray one.”
“Liv—”
“Try it.”
He sighs but goes back into the fitting room. The gray one is even better. Then the white one. Then the navy.
“You know what?” I say, pulling out my phone. “Tessa needs to see this.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Too late.” I snap a photo of him in the navy shirt, then another one in the white. “She’s going to die.”
“I’m not a model.”
“You’re right. Models don’t look this good in off-the-rack shirts.”
He stares at me, and I realize what I just said. How it sounded.
“I mean—” I start.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For caring. About how I look. Wanting me to look good. Like a real boyfriend.”
Something twists in my chest at the way he says it. Like he’s genuinely surprised that someone would want him to look good.
“Of course I care,” I say. “We’re supposed to be convincing, right?”
“Right. Convincing.”
We buy the shirts and the dress, and then somehow end up at the food court, sharing a pretzel and people-watching like we’re normal people doing normal things.
“Remember that one time when we got ditched at the mall?” West asks, pulling apart a piece of pretzel.
I smile at the memory. “I was fourteen? When Brett and his friends left us after that movie?”
“Yeah. You were so mad.”
“I was pissed,” I admit. “So was Tessa.”
“You called them all assholes.”
“They were assholes. Who ditches people at the mall without a ride home?”
“Assholes,” he agrees, grinning.
“We ended up having fun though,” I say, remembering what it felt like to have no ride home and freedom to play around.
“We did. You made me try on ridiculous outfits at that goth store.”
“Me and Tessa made you try them on. It was her more than me. She was really into Hot Topic. Remember?”
He laughs. “Yeah. I was worried she would pierce her eyebrows, her nose, her tongue. She wouldn’t stop looking at all the stuff at the piercing area. Didn’t you buy that shirt with a skull on it?”
“We all did.”
He laughs again. “That’s right. I looked like I was going through a midlife crisis.”
“You looked like you were exploring your goth side with your sister.”
We’re both laughing, and it feels easy. Natural. Like we’re just friends hanging out. It feels nice. After Tessa’s wedding, I thought I ruined everything by getting drunk and dancing too close with her brother. Turns out, we can ignore that like normal people and be friends.
“How’s your mom doing?” he asks suddenly, and the question catches me off guard.
“She’s... better. The cancer’s gone. Has been for two years.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah. But she’s been different since then. Depressed. Like surviving scared her more than dying did.”
He takes a moment to look at me. I pretend not to notice as I eat the pretzel.
“That must be hard.”
I nod. “It is. And expensive. Therapy, medication, all the follow-up appointments. Insurance covers some of it, but not all.”
I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Maybe because he’s listening like he actually cares, not like he’s just waiting for his turn to talk.
“Is that why you need the money?” he asks.
“Partly. The freelance work is drying up, and I’ve got student loans, and my mom needs help with her medical bills.” I shrug. “Money’s money.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, West,” I say, not wanting his pity.
“I am. I’m sorry that you’re dealing with all that. That you felt like you had to do this because you need the money.”
I force a grin, looking at him now. His brown eyes glimmer under the food court’s light. “I wanted to come here. I needed a break from my daily life. And this has been nice.”
“Still.”
“It’s fine, West. Really. Besides, this isn’t exactly hardship duty. Free food, nice accommodations, and all I have to do is pretend to find you charming.”
He genuinely cackles like I got him. The sound is straight from his chest, and my heart is warming at the sound.
“Is it that much of a stretch?” he asks, watching me eat.
The question hangs in the air between us, and I’m not sure how to answer it. Because the truth is, it’s not a stretch at all. The hard part isn’t pretending to find him charming, it’s pretending that’s all this is.
“Come on,” I say, standing up. “We should head back. I need to figure out what I’m doing with my hair tomorrow.”
The drive home is different than yesterday. He’s got the windows down, and when “Mr. Brightside” comes on the radio, we both start singing along without thinking about it.
“You know all the words,” he says during the guitar solo.
“It’s a classic.”
“You used to be obsessed with The Killers.”
“I was not obsessed.”
“You wrote their lyrics in your yearbook. You cried when they cancelled their concert.”
“I don’t cry.”
He’s laughing, and I’m laughing, and when “Don’t Stop Believin’” comes on next, we both know every word to that too.
For a moment, it feels like we’re just us. Like we’re teenagers again, singing badly to classic rock and not worrying about anything more complicated than whether we’ll make it home before curfew.
“Thanks,” I say when we pull into his driveway. “For today. For listening. For not making it weird when I overshared about my mom.”
“You didn’t overshare.”
“I kind of did.”
“Overshare all you want then. I’m glad you told me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We sit in the car for a moment, and I realize I don’t want this feeling to end. This easy, comfortable feeling where we’re just friends who happen to be attracted to each other but aren’t going to do anything about it.
“We should go in,” I say finally.
“Yeah.”
But neither of us moves to get out of the car, and I start to wonder if maybe I’m not the only one who wishes things turned out differently .