Chapter 10
Ryder
The Instagram post has been live for thirty-six hours, and my phone won't stop buzzing.
"You planning to answer any of those?" Chief asks from somewhere above me, his boots visible from my position under the truck.
"No."
"Your mama called the station line. Says you're ignoring her."
"I'll call her back."
"Sage called too. And Jax. And someone named Preston who sounds like he sells used cars for a living."
I slide out from under the engine, wiping grease off my hands with a rag that's seen better days. "Preston's my agent."
"The one who wanted you to fake date the girl?" Chief's expression is carefully neutral, which means he's about to meddle. "How's that working out?"
"It's working fine."
"Mm-hmm." He examines a wrench with intense focus. "Saw the Instagram post. You two looked happy."
"That's the point."
"Was it real happy or fake happy?"
I stand, stretching muscles that protest being horizontal on cold concrete. "Does it matter?"
"Son, if you have to ask that question, you're already in trouble." He sets down the wrench, and that fatherly look appears—the one that says I'm about to get wisdom whether I want it or not. "Real feelings and fake arrangements don't mix well. Trust me on that."
"We've got rules. Clear boundaries."
"Rules are great until you start wanting to break them." He pats my shoulder. "Just be careful, Ryder. That girl's been hurt before. So have you."
He leaves me with that, and I check my phone because avoiding it isn't actually solving anything.
Seventeen texts from Jax, mostly memes about the post. Three from Sage demanding details. One from Preston with a link to some sports blog that's analyzing my "improved marketability" since going public with Piper. And one from Mom that just says: She seems lovely. Invite her to dinner.
No pressure.
The last text is from Piper, sent twenty minutes ago:
Piper: We need to practice.
I stare at those four words, trying not to think about what practicing might entail. We already did the hand-holding thing at the café. What else does she think we need to rehearse?
Me: Practice what?
Piper: Being a couple. In public. Friday's game is in two days and we're going to look like awkward strangers if we don't get comfortable with basic PDA.
PDA. Public displays of affection.
Right.
Me: What did you have in mind?
Piper: Come over. I have a plan.
Of course she has a plan. Piper probably made another list.
I finish up at the station, shower off the grease and sweat, and find myself standing on her crooked porch fifteen minutes later. Through the window, I can see her pacing, phone in hand, talking to herself. Or maybe filming content. With Piper, it's hard to tell the difference.
I knock.
She opens the door, and my brain takes a second to reboot. She's wearing leggings and an oversized sweater that keeps sliding off one shoulder, hair piled on top of her head, face scrubbed clean of makeup. This is Piper without the influencer polish, and she's somehow more beautiful for it.
"Hey," she says, stepping back to let me in. "Thanks for coming over."
"You said we need to practice." I step inside, and the cabin's warm, smelling like whatever candle she's burning and something sweet I can't identify. "What's the plan?"
She closes the door, and suddenly the space feels smaller. More intimate. "Okay, so I've been thinking about Friday. You'll be playing, I'll be in the stands wearing your jersey, and people are going to be watching. Not just the scouts—the whole town. Your team. My followers if I post stories."
"And?"
"And we need to look like a real couple. Which means comfortable physical contact. Natural affection." She pulls up something on her phone, and I catch a glimpse of what looks like a bulleted list. "I researched typical couple behavior—"
"You researched couple behavior?"
"I research everything. It's my process." She's scrolling now, determined and slightly flustered. "Anyway, typical couples have patterns. Inside jokes, casual touches, the ability to exist in each other's space without awkwardness."
"We can exist in each other's space."
"Ryder. Yesterday at the café, you shook my hand like we were closing a business deal."
"We were closing a business deal."
"A fake dating business deal that requires physical chemistry people will believe." She sets her phone down, and her voice softens. "I don't want to mess this up for you. The scouts, the team, everything riding on these next games. If we look fake, if people don't buy it—"
"Piper." I step closer, and she looks up, hazel eyes wide. "We won't mess it up."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because we've got chemistry. The snowball fight video proved that. We just need to—" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence without admitting things I'm not ready to say out loud.
"Get comfortable," she finishes. "Which is why I made a list."
"Of course you did."
She picks up her phone again, scrolling. "Okay, so. First: proximity. We need to be okay with close physical contact. Standing close, sitting close, that kind of thing."
"I can stand close to you."
"Prove it."
It's a challenge, and I've never been good at backing down from those. I close the distance between us in two steps. Close enough to see the small scar above her eyebrow and count the freckles across her nose.
"Close enough?" My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
She swallows. "That's—yes. That's good. But you're tense."
"I'm not tense."
"Your shoulders are up around your ears and you're barely breathing." She reaches up, and her hands settle on my shoulders. "Relax, Lockwood. I'm not going to bite."
Her touch is light, professional even, but my body doesn't get the memo.
Heat pools low in my gut, and I'm suddenly very aware of how close she's standing, how her sweater keeps slipping off her shoulder.
I shift my weight, trying to get myself under control before this becomes embarrassingly obvious.
"You're overthinking this," she says quietly.
"I don't overthink."
"You absolutely overthink. I can see it happening." Her hands slide down slightly, and I force myself to breathe normally. "This is supposed to be natural. Easy. Like we've done it a thousand times."
"Maybe that's the problem."
"What is?"
"We haven't done it a thousand times. We've barely done it at all." I'm aware of how close we're standing, how her sweater's slipped further off her shoulder, revealing smooth skin that I have no business noticing. "What if we can't fake it well enough?"
"Then we practice until we can." She steps back, grabbing her phone again. "Next item: casual touching. Hand-holding, arm around shoulders, that kind of thing. We did hand-holding at the café, so let's try something else."
"Like what?"
"Turn around."
I raise an eyebrow but do as she asks. A moment later, I feel her arms slide around my waist from behind, her cheek pressing against my back.
"What are you doing?" The question comes out strangled.
"Back hug. Very common couple behavior. How does it feel?"
My heart hammers. I want to turn around and pull her close.
"Fine," I manage.
"You're tense again."
"Because this is—" I stop, not sure how to explain that this casual touch feels anything but casual. "Can I turn around?"
"Sure."
I do, and suddenly she's in my arms, looking up at me with those hazel eyes that seem to see more than I want her to. My hands settle on her waist automatically, and this feels dangerous.
"See?" she says, and her voice is slightly breathless. "Not so hard."
"Piper—"
"Next on the list: forehead kisses. Very sweet, very couple-y, totally PG for public."
"You want me to kiss your forehead?"
"For practice. So it looks natural on Friday." But she's not moving, still standing there in my arms like she belongs there.
I brush my thumb across her cheek, and she shivers. "You're overthinking too."
"I'm not—"
"You made a list for physical affection. That's the definition of overthinking."
"It's being prepared."
"It's being scared." The words come out softer than I mean them to. "What are you afraid of, Piper?"
Her jaw tightens. "That we'll mess this up. That I'll mess this up. That you'll—" She stops, looks away. "Never mind. Let's just practice the forehead kiss thing."
I cup her face gently, tilting it up. "I need you to understand something."
"What?"
I should keep my mouth shut. Stick to the arrangement. But standing here with her looking at me like that, I can't do it anymore.
"None of this feels fake to me." The words come out rough, honest. "Standing here with you, touching you, pretending for everyone else—I stopped pretending about two days ago."
Her eyes widen. "Ryder—"
"I know. Rules. Boundaries. Mutually beneficial arrangement." I lean down, press my forehead to hers. "But if I kiss your forehead right now, it won't be for practice."
Her breath hitches. She pulls back slightly, searching my face like she's trying to figure out if I'm serious.
"Then what will it be for?"
"Because I want to."
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning we're both avoiding. Her hands come up to rest on my chest, and I can feel her heart racing under my palms.
"We have rules," she whispers.
"I know."
"Rule four specifically."
"I know that too."
"We're supposed to keep things professional."
"Yeah." I can't look away from her. "How's that working out?"
"Terribly." She laughs, but it comes out shaky. "This is supposed to be simple."
"Nothing about you is simple."
Before she can respond, before I can do something stupid like actually kiss her, someone knocks on the door.
We spring apart like we've been electrocuted, and Piper's scrambling to fix her sweater while I'm trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts.
"Who's that?" I ask.
"I don't know. I didn't order anything." She opens the door, and Gage Bennett is standing on her porch holding a bundle of firewood.