Chapter Eight
MARLEY
Two Days Later
The Grind is busier than usual for a Saturday morning, the espresso machine hissing and gurgling as if it’s personally offended by the weekend crowd. I’m sitting at a corner table, my third coffee going cold while I compulsively check my phone every thirty seconds like some caffeinated lunatic.
Because Nitro texted me last night.
Nitro the Nice Uber Guy: Meet me at The Grind. 10 a.m. We need to talk about the plan.
The plan.
Right.
The fake-dating plan that I somehow agreed to in a moment of wine-drunk vulnerability and post-breakup spite. The plan where I pretend to be the girlfriend of a six-foot-four mountain of a man, who makes my pulse race every time he looks at me with those brilliant green eyes.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything.
Literally every damn thing.
I adjust my glasses for the fifteenth time and smooth down my vintage Fleetwood Mac T-shirt, suddenly hyperaware that I’m wearing ripped jeans and Converse instead of something that screams ‘I’m totally fine and definitely not spiraling.’
The door chimes, and I don’t even have to look up to know it’s him.
The energy in the room shifts. Conversations pause. Heads turn.
Because Nitro doesn’t just walk into a space, he dominates it.
He’s wearing dark jeans that hug his thighs in a way that should be illegal, a black T-shirt stretched across his massive chest, and boots that look as if they could kick down a door without a second thought.
His beard is neatly trimmed, his dusty blond hair, with those flecks of gray, just messy enough to make my fingers itch with the urge to touch it.
And when his eyes find mine across the crowded coffee shop, everything else disappears.
My stomach does that stupid flip-flop thing that romance novels always talk about, but I always thought was bullshit.
Turns out, it’s not bullshit.
It’s terrifying.
He weaves through the tables with an ease that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size, and then he’s standing in front of me, looking down at me with something warm and unreadable in his expression.
“Small Town,” he chimes, and the nickname sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.
“City Boy,” I manage, proud that my voice doesn’t shake.
He gestures to the chair across from me. “Mind if I sit?”
“I mean, that’s kind of why we’re here, right?” I joke, trying to lighten the tension crackling between us like static electricity before a storm.
His lips quirk into a half smile as he folds himself into the chair, which suddenly looks like doll furniture beneath his bulk. “True. But I’m still gonna be polite about it.”
Of course you are.
Because you’re decent and kind and way too good to be real.
A barista appears almost instantly, a petite blonde named Tiffany, whom I’ve seen working here for months but who has never once approached my table with that kind of speed.
“Can I get you anything?” she purrs, leaning in just enough that her cleavage is at Nitro’s eye level.
He doesn’t even glance down or take the bait. “Black coffee,” he says, his attention fixed solely on me. “Thanks.”
Tiffany’s smile falters, but she recovers quickly, scribbling on her notepad with unnecessary flair. “Coming right up.”
The moment she’s gone, Nitro leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, and studies me with an intensity that makes heat crawl up my neck.
“So,” he says. “The plan.”
“The plan,” I echo, wrapping my hands around my coffee mug as if it’s a life preserver.
“You sure you want to do this?” The question catches me off guard. There’s no pressure in his voice, no expectation, just genuine concern.
“Are you sure?” I counter. “I mean, showing up to a fancy gala with her ex’s curvy girlfriend—”
“Don’t!” The word is sharp, cutting through my self-deprecating spiral like a knife. His jaw clenches, and something fierce flashes in his eyes. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Talk about yourself like that.” He leans forward, forearms braced on the table, and suddenly the space between us feels charged. “Any man who made you feel anything less than fucking stunning is a goddamn fool.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
I’ve been complimented before.
Derek used to tell me I was pretty, usually right before pointing out everything I needed to fix. My dad says nice things when he’s trying to smooth over my mom’s criticisms. Beck hypes me up constantly, but that’s what brothers do.
This?
This is different.
Because Nitro means it.
I see it in the way he’s looking at me, in the tension radiating from his massive frame, in the protective fury simmering beneath his words.
“I—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat and try again. “Thank you. For being kind.”
“I’m not being kind,” he says quietly, his voice dropping to that low rumble that does dangerous things to my insides. “I’m being honest.”
Oh God.
Don’t fall for him.
Don’t fall for him.
Don’t fall for this beautiful, protective, genuine man who looks at you like you matter.
Tiffany suddenly returns with his coffee, setting it down with another flirtatious smile that Nitro completely ignores. She lingers for a beat too long before finally retreating.
“So…” I grab a napkin and pull a pen from my bag, desperate for something to do with my hands. “Rules. We should probably establish some ground rules for this whole fake-dating thing.”
Nitro picks up his coffee, takes a slow sip, and nods. “Smart. What were you thinking?”
“Well, we need to make it believable, right?” I start writing, my hand shaking slightly. “So maybe… hand-holding? In public?”
“Hand-holding,” he repeats, and there’s something almost amused in his tone. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
“And pet names.” I write that down, too, even though I’m not sure why I’m documenting this like it’s a business contract. “Like you calling me Small Town, me calling you City Boy. That kind of thing.”
“I think that’s a given.”
I tap the pen against the napkin, my brain racing ahead to the part I’ve been dreading. “And… kissing?”
The word hangs between us, heavy and loaded.
Nitro’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers tighten around his coffee mug. “If it comes up. If we need to sell it.”
“Right. Just one. If necessary.”
“If necessary,” he agrees, the corner of his lips turning up ever so slightly.
The silence that follows is thick enough to cut with a knife, my pulse pounding in my throat, in my wrists, in places I didn’t even know had a pulse.
“We should practice,” I blurt out, immediately wanting to take it back when his eyebrows lift. “I mean, not the kissing! Oh, God, I just meant… like going on more practice dates? So, it looks natural when we’re around Derek and his people?”
Something that looks suspiciously like disappointment crosses Nitro’s face. “Practice dates. That’s a good idea.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He leans back again, more relaxed now. “We can’t just show up at the gala cold. People will see right through it. We need to build a… what do they call it? A narrative?”
“A narrative,” I echo, slightly dazed by the fact that he’s not only agreeing but actively strategizing. “Exactly.”
“So… we go on a few dates before the gala. Get comfortable with each other. Figure out our story, how we met, how long we’ve been together, all that.”
“We could tell them the truth about how we met,” I suggest. “The Uber ride. That’s actually kind of a great meet-cute.”
“Cute,” he repeats, and there’s definitely amusement in his voice now. “Never thought I’d hear that word applied to anything involving me.”
I look at him, really look at him. At the way his massive shoulders fill out that T-shirt, at the ink crawling up his arms, at the beard that should make him look intimidating but somehow makes him look warm. Real. Human.
“You’d be surprised,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
His eyes lock onto mine, and the intensity there steals my breath. The coffee shop, the other customers, Tiffany hovering somewhere in my peripheral vision, it all fades away until there’s just him and me and this moment stretching between us like taffy.
“Marley,” he says, and hearing my actual name in that deep, rough voice does something to me. Something that has no business happening when this is supposed to be fake.
“Yeah?”
“About what I said earlier. About Derek.” He sets down his coffee, and I track the movement of his hands, big, capable hands that I suddenly, desperately want to hold.
“He’s a fucking idiot for letting you go.
And for the record? Your curves?” His gaze drops briefly, appreciatively, before meeting mine again.
“They’re not something to apologize for.
They’re part of what makes you stunning. ”
Heat floods my cheeks. My entire body feels as if I’m sitting under a spotlight, exposed and seen in a way I haven’t been in years.
Maybe ever.
“I…” I swallow hard. “Derek said I needed to lose weight. That I was embarrassing him in front of his colleagues.”
Nitro’s expression goes thunderous. “Where does he live? I wanna talk.”
Despite everything, I laugh. It bursts out of me unexpectedly, breaking some of the tension coiling in my chest. “You can’t beat up my ex-boyfriend.”
“Can’t or shouldn’t?” He’s smiling now, too, but there’s still that protective edge underlying his words.
“Both.”
“Fine.” He picks up his coffee again. “But if he so much as looks at you wrong at that gala—”
“You’ll behave like a perfect gentleman,” I finish firmly, even though the caveman protectiveness is doing absolutely nothing to help my growing Nitro problem.
“I’ll behave like a devoted boyfriend,” he corrects, and the word ‘boyfriend’ sends a fresh wave of butterflies through my stomach.
Right.
Fake boyfriend.
Right.
Pretend relationship.
This isn’t real, Marley. I need to remember that.
“So…” I look down at my napkin, at my chicken-scratch list of rules that suddenly seems woefully inadequate. “Practice dates. How many were you thinking?”
“When is the gala?”
“Two weeks from tonight.”
Nitro nods slowly, calculating. “Then, at least three practice dates. Maybe four. We need to look comfortable together, like we’ve been doing this for a while.”
“Three or four dates.” I write that down, then look up at him. “What kind of dates?”
“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s simple, like I have all the power here. “Dinner? Movie? Something else?”
“Can I think about it?”
“Course.” He drains the last of his coffee and stands, and I have to crane my neck to keep looking at him. “You got my number. Just text me when you’ve got ideas.”
“Okay.”
He hesitates, and for a moment I think he’s going to leave.
Then he moves around the table, and before I can process what’s happening, he’s leaning down, his hand warm and solid on my shoulder.
“We’re gonna make that asshole regret ever letting you go, Small Town,” he says softly, his breath stirring my hair. “I promise you that.”
And then he’s gone, striding out of The Grind with that same commanding presence, leaving me sitting here with my cold coffee, racing heart, and the lingering warmth of his hand on my shoulder.
Tiffany appears at my table approximately three seconds later. “So,” she says, not even pretending to be subtle. “Is he single, or?”
I surprise myself by smiling, a real, genuine smile that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Taken,” I tell her, testing the word out. “Very, very taken.”
And as I pack up my things and head out into the Vegas morning, I try not to think about how much I wish that were actually true.
This is fake.
This is purely pretend.
But my racing heart doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo.
This is only going to end one way, with me getting hurt all over again.
But for some reason, I can’t find it in me to care right now.
First, I’ll make Derek suffer, then I’ll deal with the inevitable fallout from this fake-dating scenario.
Because if there is one thing I am sure of, there will be fallout.
And it’s bound to be nuclear!