Chapter 10
Fable
“What the fuck do I even wear?” I grumble to Knocks, tossing a jean jacket onto the Mount Everest of clothes on my bed. He immediately pounces, pawing at a button.
A text comes through on my phone, and I grab it off the nightstand to find a message from Theo.
Theo: You still up for dinner? Need me to make up an excuse to cancel?
Fable: Depends on the excuse.
Theo: Sorry, we can’t come. Fable got arrested for murder.
A choked laugh bursts out of me, and I start to reply, but more excuses come through.
Theo: She’s taking her boating exam.
Theo: She’s writing an essay about why Aragorn was her first crush.
Theo: That last one is the most believable.
Fable: ??
Fable: I’m going to dinner. That insulation isn’t going to install itself.
Theo: I’ll pick you up at six. It’s a date.
Fable: It’s a work dinner.
Theo: It’s a dating work dinner.
This is business. These are work events. That mantra has served me well for the last three days, and I’ll keep a grip on it until my nails bleed. No matter how much Theo teases me about it.
With a frustrated groan, I swipe out of the text chain and open my contacts.
My first instinct is to call Mia for fashion advice.
She’s been curating my clothing choices since ninth grade, when she called an intervention because I’d been wearing my soccer jersey to school every day.
(You’re a spring, she told me, flipping through her mom’s color analysis book.
You look like a corpse in this shade of red.)
However, aside from a few texts back and forth—Mia: omfg Theo told me you’re fake dating?
?? Fable: It’s more like a business arrangement.
Mia: Debra Messing and Dermot Mulroney had a “business arrangement” in The Wedding Date, and we all know how that turned out ??—we haven’t had our usual once-a-week, catch-up-for-hours phone call.
And I don’t have the time or stamina to argue with her about how this is nothing like Debra and Dermot.
I scroll to my next best option.
“Cute bra, but you forgot a shirt,” Tessa points out when she appears on my screen, lying on her couch, a charcoal mask smeared over her face, and a purple Popsicle in her free hand.
“That’s why you’re here.” I prop the phone up on my nightstand and step back until she can see me from the knees up. “What the hell does a person wear to their fake boyfriend’s best friend’s house for dinner? I need my most fashionable sister’s advice.”
She points her Popsicle at me. “I’ll help if I can tell Millie you gave me that title.”
“I’ll put it on a mug. Now, how are these jeans?” I turn for her to see the full view of how the black denim hugs the curves of my hips.
“Literally perfect. Bring a towel though, because Theo’s going to be drooling all night.”
I laugh that off, even as the thought settles low and heavy in my stomach.
“I know you’re going to cover up that bra, but just so you’re aware, that would kill him.”
Glancing down at the emerald-green lace, I smile to myself.
Lingerie is one of my favorite forms of self-care.
I love how the silky, delicate fabrics are just for me—simply because they make me feel beautiful.
Sexy. Strong. It’s not really something I have the budget to indulge in lately, but I found this matching set tucked into the back corner of my dresser and thought it deserved an outing.
And even though no one—well, except Tessa, I guess—is going to see it, it makes me feel pretty.
“This is a work dinner. We’re not trying to kill anyone.”
She lets out a skeptical “Mm-hmm,” then asks, “Where is that sage-green sweater you wore to dinner in Wilhelmina last month?”
I turn and scoot Knocks out of the way to rifle through the mess until I find it. Pulling the sweater onto my shoulders, I fold the sides across my body and tie the string to hold the wrap in place.
“That’s the one.” Tessa bites off a chunk of Popsicle and crunches through it a few times. “You look hot. Leave your hair down, add your sexy leather jacket, and bam. RIP, Theo.”
Stepping toward the phone, I examine my reflection a little closer. The neckline brushes smoothly over the top swell of my breasts, then dips down to a vee in the middle, giving away a subtle hint of cleavage. The fabric hugs my stomach and ends right at my high-waisted jeans.
I’ll be honest, I’m not trying to kill Theo, but the thought of him being a little . . . tortured tonight sure does make my insides all warm and fizzy for some reason.
Tessa finishes another bite and asks, “How are the books?”
I reach for a wad of clothes on the bed and start to put them away.
“They seem okay.” After a full day in front of the fan and two days in some sort of clamp-press thing Theo left on my porch, all six books have mostly recovered.
The only big loss is the fact that I can’t read most of Gramps’s notes in the margins anymore.
“That’s good. Still waiting for my big thank you for sending reinforcements.”
I scowl at her over my shoulder. “Those reinforcements were an absolute pain in the ass.”
“But did he help save the books?” When I don’t reply, she snorts. “Exactly. Pain in the ass or not, he didn’t even need to hear the whole story. I said, ‘Fable needs help,’ and he said, ‘I’m on my way.’”
My fingers flex around a hanger. I can’t look in her direction as my mind slips to a memory from my senior year of high school—me and Mia hiding in a bathroom, right before midnight at a New Year’s Eve party.
Theo was at his own party but answered on the first ring.
“We need help,” Mia whispered. I can still hear his gravelly, rushed, “On my way.” He was there in minutes, and I get chills when I think about the way his sharp gaze tracked the tears on my cheeks and his gruff, “Wait in the car,” as he stalked farther into the party.
I told myself he showed up because his sister had been the one to call, but I’ve never been able to forget the sight of his broken and bloody knuckles on the steering wheel as he drove us home that night.
Or the sight of my cheating ex the following week at school, with a purple bruise circling his eye.
Swallowing down the emotion in my throat, I turn to the phone. “Thank you, Tess.”
She tucks the wooden Popsicle stick between her teeth and smiles. “You’re welcome, Fabes. Now how do we make sure it doesn’t happen again? We need to get those books out of boxes and somewhere safe. Where are Gramps’s bookshelves?”
“Pretty sure Millie got them when we were divvying up furniture.”
“So, you need new ones.” I can practically hear her plotting already. She’s going to be on the IKEA website as soon as we get off the phone.
I give her a stern look. “If you deliver a bunch of shelves to this house, I will tell Mom and Dad about the Paramore concert.”
That sufficiently shuts her up, and I let her go so I can finish getting ready.
Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting on the front porch—mascara on my lashes and leather jacket on my shoulders—when headlights coast down the driveway. There’s a hint of nausea in my stomach, and I’m not quite sure what to blame it on, but blaming things on Theo works great, so I try that.
The truck motor dies off as I walk down the steps, then look up to see Theo skidding to a stop at the tailgate.
All the oxygen in the state vanishes at the sight of him.
The last bits of sunlight are clinging to the tops of the pine trees, but even in the looming shadows, his eyes gleam bright as they slip slowly down my body. I feel it like a hot trail that dips over every curve, all the way to my toes and back up.
“Damn,” he whispers, so soft that maybe he didn’t mean for me to hear it.
A dark gray shirt stretches over his broad chest, layered under an open blue-and-gray flannel.
His hair is styled perfectly like he took the time to fix it for tonight.
Dark jeans are molded to his muscular thighs, and I’m starting to wonder if it’s not actually the scrubs making them look so delicious.
My nails bite into my palms in an effort to stop me from reaching out to see how soft that shirt is. Or how hard the muscles are underneath.
He shakes his head as he steps closer. “You look gorgeous, Fabes,” he breathes, voice thick and husky.
The compliment burrows into my chest. It finds a cozy spot, to burn like an ember, warming me from the inside out. It’s dangerous—so fucking dangerous—how much I enjoy that feeling.
“Thank you.” I tilt my head, searching for a way to get us back on track.
I’m off kilter. This night was supposed to be RIP Theo, and instead, it’s about to be RIP me.
Murdered by the sex appeal oozing off my fake boyfriend .
. . I mean business partner. I settle for: “You look like you thought this was a date.”
His grin is cocky. “I think that’s a compliment, because I look good for dates.”
Dammit, I’m sure he does. I give him a simpering smile. “Is that what those poor women told you?”
“Aw, is someone a little jealous?” His eyes glitter, and I fight the urge to pinch him. “Your blush is giving you away.”
Rolling my eyes, I turn away and walk toward the passenger door. “I’m pretending,” I reply haughtily. “Isn’t that the point in this whole escapade?”
A dark, taunting chuckle sounds behind me. “Ahh. Didn’t know we were performing already.”
There’s no way I’m jealous at the thought of him on a date with someone else.
I’ve seen him with girls when we were in high school, and I’m sure he does very well for himself in those no-string arrangements he was talking about.
Objectively, he’s an attractive guy. Devastatingly attractive, really. I’m sure he goes on lots of dates.
I’m not jealous at all.
It’s just warm tonight.
Yes. That must be it.
This is a business partnership, I remind myself. You’re an actor, taking on the role of a lifetime, but instead of an Academy Award, you’re getting insulated floors. Do not blush around him. Maybe don’t even look at him unless you have to. Period. He sees all of it as a win.
And I refuse to let Theo Nikolaou win anything tonight.