Chapter 18 #2
Teddy stays quiet, his gaze steady on mine, warm with interest, not the idle kind, but the kind that says he’s really listening. Like he wants to know. It’s that openness in him, that natural empathy, that keeps me talking, revealing more than I normally would.
“Mom’s diagnosis has been really hard on my dad. Can you imagine it? He’s an oncologist, and his wife is dying of breast cancer. He doesn’t have the luxury of not understanding exactly what her prognosis is.” Quieter, I add, “Neither of us do.”
Teddy whispers, “Shit. That’s awful.”
“Yeah.” I sniffle as my throat tightens. “Can we talk about something else?”
Silence stretches for a few seconds. Then I blurt, “I’m sorry I let her think we’re together.
” I wring my hands. “It’s just that she was so happy, Teddy.
I haven’t seen her like that in months. She thinks I’m incapable of connection.
Of relationships, and then you—you show up with your smile and your tattoos and your robe, and suddenly I’m not a total failure. ”
He gazes at me, something soft in his eyes. “Hey.” He reaches out and gives my hand a quick, soft squeeze. “You’re not a failure, and, for the record, your mom’s kind of awesome.”
“It’s true, she is,” I admit, then hesitate as my nerves kick in, tightening in my stomach. “Which is why…” I take a breath. “I can’t believe I’m asking this, but will you be my pretend boyfriend?”
His brows lift, and then, to my surprise, a slow grin tugs at his mouth. “I can’t believe I’m actually saying yes.” He tilts his head, giving me a sideways look. “This is going to be weird, isn’t it?”
“So weird. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind the fake boyfriend thing,” he says casually. A pause, then he grins. “Do I get a backstory?”
“A what?”
“For Thanksgiving. Fake boyfriend stuff. You know, how we met, our first kiss…” He trails off with an exaggerated romantic sigh.
“Oh my God.” I bury my face in my hands, then peek at him through my fingers.
“I just think we should be prepared,” he says, shrugging like this is completely reasonable. “What if your dad asks what my favorite thing about you is? Or your mom pulls out baby photos and demands to know which ones I think are cutest?”
“She’ll do that.”
“Exactly. So.” He scoots closer, grabs my sticky notepad off the coffee table, and flips it open. “Let’s build this relationship.”
I stare at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I really am.”
I should be mortified. I am mortified. But watching him sit there in my robe, pink gel pen in hand, about to take notes on our fake love story? It might be the most ridiculous, and somehow most comforting, thing I’ve seen in weeks. I didn’t realize how badly I needed this lightness until now.
“Fine,” I say, flopping back against the couch. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”
Teddy grins. “Fake dating rules?”
I point at him. “No tongue.”
He gasps. “You wound me.”
“Also, no fake cuddling.”
“Debatable. I’m a hugger,” he mutters, but writes it down anyway.
I bite back a smile. “We’re going to regret this.”
“Oh yeah,” he says cheerfully. “Until then, let’s make it convincing.”
And somehow, just like that, I’ve roped myself into fake-dating the hot, half-naked man who lives in my guest room.
What could possibly go wrong?
***
I finish tossing the last of the groceries into the fridge, then join Teddy on the couch. He sits with his cast sprawled out, wearing my robe like he owns the place.
“All right,” he says, my sticky notepad in his hand. “Let’s figure out the details of this fake relationship.”
I raise an eyebrow as I drop onto the seat beside him. “You’re really into this, aren’t you?”
“Eating it up,” he says, then clears his throat. “First question. Our meet-cute. Coffee shop? Grocery store? Wedding-related incident? Something with spark. Maybe danger. Possibly bears—”
I cut him off. “Teddy. We already have a meet-cute.”
He blinks, catching up. “Wait. You mean when you and Gwen came for drinks at my bar? When I was working?”
“You kissed my hand, remember?” I try to keep it casual, but the words come out sharper than I intend. The fact that he doesn’t remember that moment the way I do, with vivid, excruciating clarity, stings more than I want to admit. I tack on, “Very Regency drama of you. Very Mr. Darcy.”
Hearing the snark in my tone, Teddy protests. “I was being charming! Also trying to piss Gwen off.”
“Well, it worked.” I blow out a breath and give him a rueful smile. Softer, I add, “On both counts.”
That settles him down. Quieter now, he watches me in a thoughtful lingering way. “You were staring at me.”
“No, I wasn’t,” I say, a little too quickly. “I was just…surprised. I didn’t expect you to be so…”
“Brillant? Charming? Devastatingly handsome?”
“Shameless,” I say flatly, even as my face burns.
I cross my arms over my chest, aware that this conversation is like walking across a field full of landmines. One wrong step, and I’ll blow up the easy truce between us. “Let’s use it. That first meeting. There was fake snow and you were working at the bar.”
Teddy snaps his fingers. “Yes! You were wearing that red dress, with your hair up. Your ponytail bobbed every time you moved.”
I freeze, my stomach giving a slow, unsteady flip. Hushed, I ask, “You remember all that?”
“How could I not?” Teddy shrugs, like it’s obvious. His gaze softens, becomes unfocused as if he’s replaying it in his head. “I saw you and thought, ‘Who is that?’”
Another flutter of my stomach, like I’m made of champagne and he’s making all my bubbles fizz. I look away quickly, hoping he doesn’t see the flush creeping up my neck. I’m not used to being remembered like that. To having someone pay such close attention to me.
While I struggle to regain my composure, Teddy writes: Met at bar. Hit it off. No one stared. Definitely no swooning.
“Teddy!” I cry out when I see what he’s written. I lunge forward to grab the sticky note, but he just laughs and effortlessly holds it out of my reach. He rips it off and slaps it on the table with a flourish.
“Stop editorializing,” I growl, only half-irritated. A few more seconds of staring at those words and the absurdity of our situation hits me square in the chest. “This is insane,” I mutter, dragging my fingers through my hair. “There is no way we’re pulling this off.”
Teddy leans back, propping his cast on the coffee table. “Why not?”
“Because I am terrible at this,” I answer, tugging at the collar of my shirt. “I’ve never been a good liar.”
He sits up a little, his expression softening. “Hey, breathe. It’s fake dating, not brain surgery. You’ve got this.”
“I’m serious.” I try the breathing thing. Doesn’t help. “What if she sees right through it? What if I screw it up? What if—”
“Then I’ll step in and save it with a dazzling fake boyfriend monologue,” Teddy says, with a smirk. “I’ll hold your hand dramatically. Gaze into your eyes like we’re in a rom-com. Maybe whisper something meaningful about our ‘first kiss’ while your mom dabs away tears.”
I make a strangled sound.
“I’m just saying, I’ve got range.” He strikes a pose and grins at me.
“You don’t get it. I panic when I lie. My brain short-circuits. I overthink every word, I forget what I’ve already said, and I either give way too much detail or none at all. I’m like…a malfunctioning Roomba trying to bluff its way out of a poker game.”
Teddy snorts. “That’s weirdly specific.”
“I once told a classmate I couldn’t go to her birthday party because I had a rare allergic reaction to balloons.” I sigh. “Then I doubled down and said it was the latex proteins. Do you know how long I had to fake that allergy?”
He laughs, clearly delighted. “This explains the trucker haircut lady.”
“Exactly!” I throw my hands up. “I’m built for honesty and scheduled structure. I’m a straight-A medical student in a sea of improv actors. Lying makes me sweat.”
Teddy’s grin softens into something…fond. “Okay, then we won’t lie. Not really. We’ll just selectively curate the truth.”
I eye him warily. “That sounds suspiciously like lying.”
“It’s all in the delivery, Helen.” He lifts an eyebrow, his voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “You just need a partner who can sell it.” He points to himself and wiggles his eyebrows.
I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth twitch. “You really think we can do this?”
“I know we can, Helen the Hellcat.” His grin curves slowly, the nickname a throwback to Gwen’s wedding night, when he’d challenged me to a dance-off and the two of us spun under the lights, laughing while the crowd egged us on.
Back then, he’d called me that like it was a dare, like he’d already decided I could match him step for step.
Now, he bumps his knee against mine, his voice low and steady. “I believe in you.”
God help me because when he says it like that I kind of believe in me, in us, too.
“Next,” Teddy declares loudly, like it’s his job to keep us on track. He taps the pen against his chin. “First date.”
I cross my arms. Not wanting to get too close to the truth this time, I make something up. “Rooftop dinner. String lights. Jazz trio in the corner. I wore a green dress and said nothing awkward the entire time.”
He deadpans, “That’s how we know it’s fiction.”
“Ha, ha. Funny.” I send him a mock glare.
He writes, First date: Rooftop jazz club. Green dress. Zero awkward silences (LOL). The note goes on the table.
“Pet names,” he announces.
“Absolutely not.”
“It’s fake dating law. We need at least two disgusting ones.”
“Nope.”
“Snugglebutt?”
I lob another pillow at him. “I will murder you.”
He catches the pillow midair and tucks it under his back. “Murder snugglebutt. It’s got a nice ring to it.”
Teddy writes: Pet names: Babe (for public use). Murder Snugglebutt (private use only—under death threat).
“This is spiraling,” I mutter.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He stares down at the note pad. “Okay. This one’s important. First kiss.”
I freeze.