Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Daphne Davis was a good girl who followed rules and ticked boxes. She flossed daily and preened when the dentist noticed her absence of plaque. She kept on top of her finances, her health, and her chores in a way that lifestyle influencers only pretended to do when the cameras were rolling.

Life was better when there was order. Safety. Stability. When items had homes in labeled boxes and every commitment was immortalized in a color-coded calendar.

But even good little rule followers like Daphne sometimes went bad.

As she drove home from the party at her parents’ house with a tub of mint-chip ice cream sandwiched between her thighs, Daphne felt like a rebel. From the outside, her revolt was laughable. But on the inside, the core of her was turning brittle. Everything that made Daphne Daphne felt like the faded garments on an old scarecrow, only a few bits of fraying thread keeping her together while crows circled overhead.

All she’d stolen was a container of ice cream—and a spoon—from her parents’ kitchen, and then she’d sneaked away from the party through the back door. She hadn’t said goodbye to anyone, but none of the partygoers had seemed to notice or care when she’d made her bid for freedom.

The ice cream chilled her crotch as she tore off the lid and flicked it onto the passenger seat, and Daphne ignored the little voice in her head that told her she should at least wait until she was home so she could use a bowl. Who needed a bowl when you had desperation?

She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other digging her spoon into the pint with the single-mindedness of a toddler who knew she had only a few minutes to get away with something naughty. Creamy, mint-flavored ice cream hit her tongue, and she let out a moan.

It was ice cream from a local shop that was only open during the warmer months, which meant that this deliciousness had survived the fall and half the winter in her parents’ freezer yet still tasted like heaven. Sorcery. If there was one thing she’d missed when she’d been away from Fernley Island, it was Rhonda Roberts’s ice cream. Her mint-chip deliciousness was one of the few truly good things about the small tree-covered patch of land in the middle of the Salish Sea.

Things that weren’t so good: the incessant gossip, the lack of privacy, the stagnancy, and the fact that somehow, on an island of misfits and weirdos, Miss Goody Two-Shoes Daphne Davis, who did exactly what she was supposed to do all the time, was the odd one out.

Figured.

Unfortunately, doing exactly what she was supposed to do all the time hadn’t led Daphne down the path of success these last two years. She’d failed to foresee a few things, even with a comprehensive, color-coded schedule and a bulletproof routine. Like her ex-fiancé telling her he wasn’t in love with her anymore. Or the sale of the forever home they’d purchased together, which turned out not to be forever at all. Or the layoffs at her steady accounting job.

Jobless, homeless, near broke, and alone. Just the triumphant return home every eldest daughter imagined for herself.

Squeezing the steering wheel with a bloodless grip while she scooped another mouthful of minty ice cream into her gob, Daphne pushed down memories of everything that had gone wrong and focused on keeping her car between the lines and her speed under the limit. These were rules she could follow. Rules that made sense. If she followed the rules, everything would be okay.

After swerving slightly as she tried to angle the spoon to a particularly chip-dense patch of ice cream, Daphne jerked the wheel to right the car, flicking some of her snack on her sweater in the process.

“Crap,” she said, glancing down at the dribble of melting ice cream drawing a line down her front. Gritting her teeth, she ignored the mess and went for another spoonful.

If she’d been able to think clearly, Daphne might have wondered why she was seeking solace in a pint of cream and sugar. Or why it felt so imperative that she eat as much ice cream as possible before she got back to the little one-bedroom apartment she’d rented for a six-month term. She might have wondered why she was planning, without consciously deciding it, to throw the pint out before she went up to her apartment, as if she’d need to hide the evidence. Evidence of what?

If she’d felt like herself, Daphne could have set the stolen spoon aside and focused on the road, using the quiet of the car to sort through her chaotic thoughts. She could have embraced the darkness of the forest on either side of the road, watching the way her headlights carved moving shadows between the trunks.

Was it being back on Fernley Island that was putting her on edge? Did she feel like a failure because she was supposed to be the successful sister, and yet she’d had to come back to this small island in the Pacific Northwest out of desperation after her string of recent misfortunes?

Or, more shamefully, was it the fact that the party at her parents’ house had been a celebration of her sister Ellie’s engagement to Hugh Hartford, and Daphne couldn’t quite swallow the acid taste of her own envy?

A few splatters of rain fell on the windshield, and Daphne let out a sigh. That was as familiar as the rest of the island where she’d grown up, though she hadn’t escaped the gray skies and wet weather during her time in Seattle. She passed a soggy-looking sign made of an old sheet of plywood spray-painted with the words Private: Keep Out in drippy black letters, and she knew that the intersection where she’d turn left was coming up just over the crest of the next hill.

She wrapped her fingers around her spoon and jabbed it at the ice cream between her legs with the kind of urgency that hinted at an unwell mind.

Soon, she’d be in her small, tidy, impersonal apartment she’d rented in Carlisle, the largest and only town on the island. The ice cream would be dispatched into some public trash can down the block from her building. She would take a shower and wash off the effort it had taken to keep her smile hooked high on her cheeks all evening, get a good night’s rest, and prepare for her first day of work on Monday.

Everything would be fine. All she had to do was eat as much ice cream as possible and not think about the stomachache to come.

That was her plan, at least, until headlights appeared behind her. Whoever it was had their brights on—or maybe those horrible white LEDs that made her eyeballs ache. They were high enough that Daphne knew the vehicle was a gigantic truck. She slowed as she came to the intersection, indicating left, hoping whoever was driving behind her wasn’t heading into town.

But the truck followed her at the turn, and Daphne settled in for a squinty drive home, cursing the driver, who probably had no use for a huge truck to begin with. She’d bet every dollar in her fastidiously managed savings account that the truck bed remained empty at least 95 percent of the time.

She ate more ice cream and stewed in her own resentment. Her inner thighs were wet from the condensation beading on the container, but even the discomfort of wet, cold jeans couldn’t clear her head.

Then more lights appeared above the headlights. These ones were red and blue, and they flashed ominously in the dark. A loud whoop cut through the night, and Daphne’s entire body clenched. The ice cream container collapsed, and melty mint-chip cream oozed from the top.

Daphne yelped, the car jerked, and her pulse kicked into overdrive. Sucking in a hard breath, Daphne angled the vehicle toward the side of the road. Her tires kicked up gravel as they crunched onto the shoulder. She put the car in park and waited.

Her mouth was dry, and the ice cream had turned sour on her tongue. She gritted her teeth, reaching for the lid as she tried to fit it onto the now-crushed container. Her spoon clattered as she dropped it into a cup holder, and she set the deformed pint of ice cream on the passenger seat. Sticky hands reminded Daphne she hadn’t had the foresight to steal a dish towel or even a napkin during her great escape.

Another glance in her rearview told her that whoever this deputy was, he was taking his sweet time. Meanwhile, her pulse sped and sweat beaded along her temple.

That’s when she noticed her pants. More specifically, the gigantic, obvious wet patch centered around the crotch of her light-wash jeans.

Groaning, Daphne squeezed her thighs together, but all that did was make her feel wet and cold in places that had no business feeling that way at all.

She drummed her fingers on her steering wheel, trying to ignore the sweat gathering under her arms. The jump in Daphne’s pulse made her scowl. It wasn’t that she was afraid; it was just that she hated confrontation and couldn’t bear the thought of doing something wrong, even when she’d been high on ice cream–flavored rebellion. Old habits and all that.

Any hint of strife, and Daphne’s muscles tensed. After all, when she messed up, everyone treated it like some sort of calamity. A ticket would be the talk of the town—especially considering where Daphne would be working come Monday.

In her side mirror, she watched the truck’s door open. It was dark, and he was behind the bright headlights, so all she could make out was the vague form of a man as he stepped out, closed the door, and turned to face her vehicle.

The deputy approached with slow, measured steps. Silhouetted by his overbright headlights, he looked broad and tall and imposing. Despite her best efforts, Daphne’s pulse gave a nervous rattle.

Nothing to be worried about. Right? It was just a traffic stop, and Daphne hadn’t done anything wrong. Had she? There was no need to be this nervous.

She glanced at her crotch, then at the ice cream. Was it illegal to eat and drive? Did it count as distracted driving? Had she been breaking the law without even realizing it? Her breathing became jagged.

No. She was being ridiculous.

Then again, she’d been swerving all over the place! Had he seen? Would he arrest her? Would she lose her job before she’d even had the chance to start?

The officer paused, studying the back of her car. Daphne gulped and lowered her window. His footsteps crunched on the gravel. Daphne waited, listening to the thump of her heartbeat in her ears and the sound of his approach.

Maybe she could talk herself out of it. She could bat her eyelashes or pull out some of that charm her sister had in spades. Ellie could talk herself out of anything, and if she did get in trouble, she somehow always spun it to her advantage.

Daphne couldn’t talk herself out of an open door.

“License and registration.” The deep voice reverberated through her bones, and Daphne made a squeak of assent as she gathered the documents. She passed them through the window, tilting her head to get a look at the man.

In the gloom, she could barely make out the planes of his face below the brim of his cap. Rain spattered it, dripping off the edge like a veil. He wore a dark-blue uniform under a matching blue windbreaker, his hard male lips pinched into a thin line. It hadn’t just been the headlights, Daphne realized. He was broad and tall, especially when he loomed outside her car door with the added height of his authority.

In the wake of all her recent failures, Daphne felt very small as she waited for him to speak. The seconds dragged. The pressure of it was too much. She felt like she’d explode if one of them didn’t say something.

So she went first.

“Just so you’re aware,” she started, gesturing to the dark patch on her light jeans, “I was holding a pint of ice cream with my thighs. This is condensation.”

There was a moment of silence before he said, “Okay.”

“I wanted to clear that up.” Daphne gave him a businesslike nod. Just two people having a chat about the state of her groin, such as it was.

He was still for a moment, and Daphne wished she could see his face. “Daphne Davis,” he mused, tapping her license against his palm. “This is a surprise.”

Oh. He knew her. Of course he knew her! Daphne racked her brain. She’d looked up the Fernley County Sheriff’s Department website when she got the job offer, and she hadn’t recognized any of the names, except for Shirley Newbury, who’d worked the phones at the station since the dawn of time, and Hank Packer, who’d been there almost as long. The rest of the department had recently undergone significant upheaval—hence Daphne’s presence on the island. She’d been offered a job at the sheriff’s department precisely because of that upheaval.

But this man knew her. A local. He had to be.

She tilted her head to try to get a look at him, but the darkness was too deep, and his hat cast shadows over his features. He kept his head tilted, his brim concealing everything but the strong line of his jaw and the small, almost imperceptible curl of his smirk.

Was he staring at her crotch? Did he believe her about the ice cream condensation thing? Why had she even mentioned it?

Wait. Was eating and driving a crime? Had she just incriminated herself?

She sucked in a deep breath.

What would Ellie do? She needed to channel her sister and brazen her way out of this.

“Look, uh, sir, I’m not ... This isn’t ... Is everything okay?” Her voice broke on the last word.

That was most definitely not what Ellie would do. Ellie would already have this guy grinning and waving her on her way. Either that, or her sister would lead him on a merry chase through the forest, get arrested, and somehow garner sympathy from half the island for her misdeeds.

Daphne glanced at the trees on the other side of the ditch lining the road. Could she ...?

No. God, no. The fact that she’d even considered making a run for it was proof that she was spiraling out of control. She glanced sideways at the deformed container of ice cream like it was to blame for all of this.

“Do you know why I stopped you?” There was a hint of something in the deputy’s voice. Something Daphne couldn’t place. An edge. Who was he?

“Was I speeding?” she guessed, knowing she hadn’t been.

“Have you been drinking tonight?”

“I had a glass of wine with dinner,” she admitted, “but that was three hours ago.” The party at her parents’ house was probably still going, but Daphne had left early and decided not to drink any more. She tended to get weepy with alcohol. Crying when she was supposed to be celebrating her sister’s engagement was not what she wanted to do to set tongues wagging so soon after she’d arrived on the island.

She knew her life was just one more disaster away from falling apart completely. That didn’t mean she wanted to announce it to everyone else.

“Step out of the vehicle, ma’am.”

Now he was calling her “ma’am.” “Is this necessary?” she complained.

“Step out of the vehicle,” he repeated, his voice hard.

Daphne sighed and unclipped her seat belt. She opened the door and slid out, scowling as a fat raindrop landed on her nose. A gust of wind reminded her that her crotch was wet and cold. She planted her hands on her hips and lifted her gaze to meet—

“Flint?” she blurted out. “Calvin Flint?”

“That’s Sheriff Flint to you,” he said, tilting his head up so the light from his truck illuminated his face.

Daphne’s stomach sank. This was just wonderful. Of all the people on all the islands ...

Yeah, he was local. A local pain in her ass.

But she couldn’t help the pop of her brow or the words that slipped out of her lips next. “Shouldn’t that be Acting Sheriff Flint?” She blinked at him, angelic. “Sir?”

The former sheriff, Bill Jackson, had been arrested and charged for taking bribes on the job. Most of the department had gotten the boot in an event that had fueled island gossip for a year and a half. The dust had settled and the election for the next sheriff had been scheduled for the fall, but the chaos in the ranks of Fernley law enforcement was one of the reasons Daphne was here in the first place.

Apparently, it was one of the reasons Calvin freaking Flint was here too.

Flint’s jaw clenched. He was clean shaven, but the shadow of his beard told her it had been hours since a razor had touched his skin. His eyes were the same hard chips of hazel she remembered from nineteen years ago, watching her like she wasn’t worth the dirt under his gleaming black boots.

“Maybe I should get you to call me ‘boss’ instead,” he suggested, eyes narrowing slightly. “Unless I read the wrong name on the paperwork this morning.”

Oh, that was rich. He thought that, just because he wore a shiny new badge, he could push her around? Calvin Flint, of all people?

She snorted. That wasn’t surprising. The Calvin Flint she’d known was a vindictive, sniveling worm who enjoyed prodding people until they snapped.

The good girl inside Daphne stepped aside, replaced with a creature made of snark and backbone. A creature that had been tucked in a cage and starved for a long, long time. A creature that looked at her supposed rebellion with the ice cream and said, That’s cute.

She smiled politely. “Technically, your department hired me as a consultant. So you’re my client, not my boss. If that concept is confusing to you, I can try to explain it again. I know these things can sometimes be difficult to understand.” Her smile turned vicious. “Sir.”

She was making it worse. She could tell by the way Flint’s shoulders stiffened and the corners of his lips turned down.

Good. Served him right. Not that she was bitter about old high school bygones, but still. She and Flint weren’t going to be besties anytime soon, even if they would be working together.

The rain came down heavier around them. The sheriff— acting sheriff—arched a dark brow. “Still the same know-it-all as you were at seventeen, huh. You haven’t changed a bit.”

Daphne stiffened. “Why am I standing here in the rain instead of warm in my bed, Flint? Or do you enjoy accosting women on deserted stretches of road at night? Is that why you joined the force? Being a dropout wasn’t working for you, so you decided to lord your authority over anyone unlucky enough to step onto your turf?”

The air between them turned electric. Daphne knew the man before her was furious; she could sense it in the snap of static against her skin, the tension that stole over his body, and the way his eyes went from cold to glacial.

“I would stop talking if I were you, Davis,” he warned quietly.

Normally, Daphne would comply. She’d lived her life trying to be the sensible one. She always double- and triple-checked her work. She actually read the terms and conditions for all the apps and services she used, instead of just clicking “Agree” and moving on. Sassing an officer of the law a day and a bit before she started working for the sheriff’s department was not the way Daphne operated.

Well. Not usually.

Because Daphne was good . She’d worked hard all her life. Got the scholarships. Got the degree. Got the boyfriend who turned into the fiancé. She’d had a steady job as an accountant at a large firm, and life had been chugging along exactly as it should for someone so dutiful and responsible as she.

But now, as the rain grew heavier and soaked through the shoulders of her sweater, Daphne felt like a pressure cooker about to blow its lid.

She was back on the island where she’d grown up, facing off against the man who’d gotten in her way and almost made her lose it all. And not only were they going to be working together, but he was actually the sheriff . He was in charge.

And he was handsome, damn him! He’d been this scrawny little teenage bad boy with a chip on his shoulder the size of Fernley Island, and now he was ... he was this . This muscular, grown-up, large-and-in-charge man . Not that she was attracted to him, but it galled her that he hadn’t turned into a sad, balding, leather-skinned wreck like he was supposed to. Wasn’t that what happened to high school rivals? They didn’t pop out of thin air looking like part-time calendar models for Sheriffs Illustrated . They peaked at seventeen. That was how these things worked.

But Calvin Flint seemed to have peaked about two decades later, and Daphne had the horrible sensation that she was the one who was past her prime.

He was standing in the pouring rain, and his uniform still looked neat. How? That’s what Daphne wanted to know. How did the hair sticking out from under his cap not look like a sodden mess, when she knew her own locks were plastered to her head like a helmet? How did the crease down the front of his pants look sharp as ever? Why couldn’t he look the least bit soggy, just this once?

She was in a foul mood. She was mad about being pulled over. Mad about being pulled over by him . Mad about being on the island at all, with her broken engagement and bout of unemployment and swirling belly full of shame. Mad that she hadn’t actually enjoyed any of that ice cream, after all.

And, fine. Daphne could admit that even though she was happy for her sister, seeing Ellie so happy and in love had been like a very thin needle being inserted right into the center of her heart. Because Ellie was a tornado turned human. She was well-intentioned chaos. She was impulsive and brash, and somehow that made her likable.

Daphne couldn’t measure up. Ever since they’d been kids, Ellie had always eclipsed her. Not in school, or grades, or responsibilities. No, Daphne ruled those areas. But Ellie had more charm in her pinkie finger on a bad day than Daphne could have cobbled together during her whole life.

Daphne tried so hard to be good. To be responsible. To do what she needed to do. But the one thing she could never be was good enough .

As she stood in front of the man she’d least expected to see, facing the reality that she’d be seeing a whole lot more of him unless she quit her job and landed herself in an even worse position than her current one, Daphne couldn’t curl into herself and play the good, dutiful, responsible citizen. She couldn’t take the submission of it. The smirk she knew would grace Flint’s lips.

She couldn’t let him win.

Her chin lifted. “Is this the part where you frisk me? Because if you touch me, I’ll—”

“You’ll what.”

The static against her skin became sharper, and the sheriff took one single step closer to her. Daphne locked her knees and stood her ground.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, Davis,” he told her in a low voice. “I stopped you because your left taillight is out.”

Daphne deflated like an old party balloon. She combed her fingers through her hair and winced when they snagged on wet knots. “Oh.”

“I could write you a ticket,” Flint noted, “but I won’t. Get it fixed before you come to the station on Monday. Now, go on,” he said, dipping his head toward her car door. “I’ll escort you home.”

“How magnanimous of you,” she said, sneering, because apparently she was petty and rude on top of it all.

“You’re testing my patience, Cupcake.”

Daphne stiffened at the old nickname delivered in such a dark tone. But two could play at that game. “It’s what you deserve, Einstein.”

His jaw worked, highlighting the hollows beneath his cheekbones and the sheer manly perfection of his bone structure. He was truly awful.

The only sound was the splatter of the rain. “Do you want a ticket, Davis? Because I’m more than happy to give you one.”

She met his eyes and snorted. “Working together should be fun,” she said; then she brushed past him and got in her car. Her hands shook as she put her seat belt on, and she wasn’t sure if it was nerves or fury or the force of Calvin Flint’s presence that was doing it. With a frustrated huff, she started her engine.

It wasn’t until Daphne had her turn signal blinking to merge back onto the road that she realized she had, indeed, talked her way out of a ticket. Straightening, she glanced at the lights in her rearview mirror and squinted ...

Then she let a small secret smile tug at the corners of her lips.