Chapter 13 #2
I whip out my phone. “Up to something.”
“Yes!”
“Let’s check his socials. See if we can figure it out.”
Her eyes flash with excitement. “I haven’t checked his socials once since we split up.”
That makes me outrageously happy, but I smother all semblance of a smile. “Good, let’s keep it that way,” I grumble, then type in his name, wishing I didn’t know it but glad I do because I need to know what his deal is. I roll my eyes as soon as I get to his feed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“What is it?” she asks, her tone wary, and nervous too.
I shake my head at the schmoozebag in the pic. “He brought one of his own beers to the picnic. Look at this.”
I spin my phone around and show her the screen.
It’s a selfie of Jameson at the outskirts of the botanic garden lifting one of his bottles with the label facing the camera and the caption reads: So great to be celebrating with Caroline Hatmaker and her fiancé with the most refreshing drink there is. Excited for the wedding!
“And he tagged them both,” I add.
She cringes, but then narrows her brow. “It’s like he’s trying to use my sister as a celebrity endorsement in some way.”
“And trying to get them to what—carry his beer at their wedding?” I knew I was right about this guy. He’s such a poser. “Why not just ask his bud?”
Remy breathes fire as she says, “Because he knows Parker has no say. We even joked about it when we were together. He said I know weddings are for champagne but if they need beer, I’m their guy and I told Parker as much.
I just laughed and said He’s not making any wedding decisions and besides, my sister runs everything past me.
So Jameson probably figures he has to suck up to me. ”
I burn with loathing for this guy, but I don’t need to let more of it show.
That won’t help her move on. Instead, I take a drink of my coffee, then set it down and meet her eyes.
“Like I told you the other night, you deserve so much better than him—someone who tries to be friends after you split to get some social credit with your sister. Plus, the way he ended things tells me a lot about who he is.” I shove my phone away, like it offended me simply by revealing his picture.
She winces, as if she’s a little embarrassed. “I think the breakup kind of made it clear to me who he is too. I wish I’d seen it sooner, while we were together. But hindsight and all.”
Well, I can’t leave that tidbit alone. “What do you wish you saw?”
She takes a moment, clearly thinking. “There were things I liked about him when we were together of course. He seemed super self-aware and all. And friendly. He was friendly,” she says, and I bite back all the bitter words I could say about the poser, letting her share.
“But I think, looking back, I’m not even sure I missed him during the mandatory post-breakup hermit days,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh.
I give a small smile at her characterization, then wait for her to say more.
“I missed the idea of him,” she continues. “I missed not being embarrassed on the Jumbotron. I missed not feeling like a fool with an Internet nickname. I missed all that more than him.”
And I can’t hold back now. I lean closer, speaking from the center of my damn soul. “You deserve someone who treats you better. Someone who’s honest. Someone who’s passionate about you.”
“I appreciate you saying that,” she says, like I just gave her a compliment about a promo she put together, or the way she organized an event.
But this moment isn’t about appreciation.
It’s about action. Before I know it, the words are coming out of my mouth.
“I want to show you how you should be treated. Before, during, and after a relationship. I want to be the best rebound you’ve ever had.
Nope—make that the best rebound anyone has ever had. ”
She looks at me like she can’t believe I’m saying this. But I can. This new game plan—one I devised seconds ago—makes perfect sense to me.
Tilting her head, she asks carefully, “What do you mean exactly by rebound, Lake?”
I go full-speed ahead. “It was hardly an act today at the picnic, talking you up, treating you well, lifting you up. The story I told about asking you out every damn day felt real. You deserve someone like that. Someone who’s relentless in his pursuit.
You deserve someone who sends you stuffed foxes and leaves you notes.
You deserve someone who messes up your lipstick,” I add, and a slight tremble seems to run through her.
That tremble drives me on. “Someone who defends you against douchey photographers and lying exes. You deserve passion and honesty and to be put first in a relationship.”
She lifts her hand, sets it on her heart, like she’s touched. “Thank you. Seriously.”
But nope. That’s not enough. Thanks isn’t the point.
I hold her gaze, making sure she knows I’m dead serious.
“While we’re doing this, while we’re fake dating, let me show you what it means to be treated with passion and honesty.
That social-climbing fuckwad should not be your last impression of romance.
I want to be. I want to show you what it means to put you first. That’s what I mean by rebound. ”
She dips her head, like she’s hiding a smile, or maybe emotions, since when she raises her face, her eyes are shining. “Show me how to rebound, Lake.”
This is the real hat trick. “I will.”
I slide another piece into place, feeling better than I do on the ice. There’s just one more thing. “About those rules. I don’t think we ever established an important one. So let me be clear. While you’re fake dating me, I won’t be dating other people and—”
“You better not!”
I jerk back. I wasn’t expecting a little jealous dragon in Remy, but I like it more than her chai latte snort. “Tell me what you really think, Remy,” I tease, feeling a little cocky too.
“Will you?” she asks sharply, not playing games.
I don’t play either as I look her in the eyes again and say, slowly and clearly, “No. Fucking. Way.”
She lifts her chin. “Same for me.” She slides in an orange puzzle piece with a flourish.
God, she’s hot when she’s jealous. But her anger seems to cool as her eyes go thoughtful. “But what happens when this ends?”
My chest squeezes sharply, like someone’s tied a rope around it.
I know it’ll have to end. That’s always been the plan.
And the plan is to treat the end with the respect she deserves.
“It’ll be controlled. It’ll be easy, since we’ve planned it.
It won’t be on a Jumbotron. I won’t make you a fool,” I say, in a promise that feels as important as any other one.
“I’d like that,” she says, then takes a sip of her chai, sets it down, and hunts for another piece, finds it and puts it in place.
I do the same, and soon we’ve finished our drinks and completed the puzzle.
I can’t stop the clock anymore. “I should go…get a puzzle for my dad,” I say, a little sheepishly.
“I like the dogs-with-jobs one.”
“I’ll get that.” I grab it and buy it.
On the way out, she turns to me and says, “Will you tell your dad we spent time together here?”
It’s an easy answer. “I will.”
“Will you tell him it was a date?”
“Unless you don’t want me to?”
Her mouth goes soft. “If it makes him happy, you should.”
It’s said as if she already cares about this person she’s never met. The person my mother left, along with my brother, Clem, and me.
I swallow roughly. “It will,” I say, and that’s more vulnerable than I’d planned to get tonight. But my fake girlfriend seems to have that effect on me.