Chapter Twelve Picnicking, Panicking and Double Dates
Linda
IT HAD BEEN four months since the dinner-that-might-not-have-been-a-client-dinner, and Linda was definitely not overthinking it.
They had a rhythm now. A structure. A system.
She was Rhys’s fake girlfriend. His beard. His emotional decoy. She wasn't sure why he needed one—he certainly passed as straight. His sisters were aggressively supportive .
But it wasn’t her place to decide when someone else was safe. If Rhys felt he needed cover, she was happy to help.
Even if she… liked it a little too much.
Not dangerously much.
That would be ridiculous.
Sara disagreed. Sara always disagreed.
Linda wasn’t “spending too much time with him,” okay? It was just Saturday brunch.
And sometimes those brunches went long. Like, till 8 p.m. long. But 8 p.m. is still early! Practically brunch-adjacent!
And sure, there were the Thursday dinners.
And the new Friday movie nights, which had only been a thing for, like, six Fridays. Barely a trend.
Sunday? Never. Absolutely not.
Until this Sunday. The picnic. With Sara and her latest human-shaped dating experiment. Jerome? George? Gregory?
Oh my God. What if I forget his name in front of Sara and Rhys? Nobody would want to date—fake date—a woman who can’t remember her best friend’s date’s name!
Linda paused dramatically in her frantic organizing of snacks in Tupperware like it was a military operation and the success of staving off World War III would be decided by if the apple slices were artistically arranged or not.
“What’s his name again?” Linda asked, already rearranging crackers like they held the secret to not screwing this up. Sara was propped against the counter, favorite coffee mug filled with wine in hand.
“I can’t believe you forgot my date’s name.” Sara’s eyebrows rose so high on her head they were in danger of hovering above her hair.
“So…you forgot too?”
“Jake. Or Jonathan? One of those two. I’m almost sure of it. Doesn’t matter. I only said yes to Matt? Mike? Whomever so I could have an excuse to invite you two. You’re such a cute couple.”
“We are not a couple! You know that. In fact, you’re the only one who knows.” Linda practically growled at her best friend. Slammed a lid on a Tupperware container and viciously shoved it into the ice chest.
“You made homemade lemon bars, you denial-based hobgoblin.” Sara smirked at her, as she took a long sip of the mug-wine.
“I made something aggressively citrusy. Lemon is not romantic. Lemon is the least romantic citrus there is! It’s…it’s a dietary challenge! ”
“Right. Of course. Aggressive dessert challenge. That tracks.” Sara picked up a few kitchen hand towels and folded them. “You also bought his favorite olives.”
A lid clattered down on the counter, sandwich meat slid sideways on the tray. Linda spun around, “You can’t fake date someone for four months and not know their briny preferences. It’s etiquette. You know this. ”
“ You should just admit it, so you can deal and we can make a plan to extract you from this beard situation. You are literally in love with him.”
Linda paused, pointing a butter knife like a holy relic. “No. I’m being supportive. Of his… very real… secret gay crisis.”
Sara raised a brow. “Right. And I suppose the matching playlists, the slow-dancing in his kitchen last Friday, and the way he looked at you like you were a Hallmark card that smelled like pancakes are all part of the decoy plan?”
“We’re done talking about this. Okay? Just help me get this all ready.”
The next morning, Linda stared at her reflection and tried to decide if it was possible to look “romantically unavailable but emotionally competent” in linen shorts.
The answer was no.
Rhys was picking her up .
Because, apparently, they were that kind of fake couple now. The “I’ll drive” kind.
Her doorbell sounded. She clutched the lemon bars and braced.
Rhys looked—like always—amazing and criminally relaxed. Button-down. Rolled sleeves. Sunglasses that made him look like a rom-com budget Chris Evans. He even had iced coffees. He handed her a cup. “Iced caramel mocha latte, for the perfect fake-girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Is this a test? We have to be convincing in front of Sara’s date. Remember, we’re in love and disgustingly stable. And you know, I get a macchiato, not a mocha latte.” She glared at the offering he was holding out and missed the flash of disappointment in his eyes.
When she looked back at him, Rhys grinned at her. “If you think I’m going to give you a drink with espresso and then take you to a park with a river running by it, you are out of your mind. I’m not fishing you out again.”
“Fair point.” She grimaced and grabbed the cup. “Where’s Sir Stumps-a-lot?”
“Waiting. In the car. I got him a plaid shirt for the picnic. He’s pouting. He wanted to wear his kilt. I told him it was too dressy and he’d end up outshining me. Can’t pull your focus. ”
Linda took a sip of the frankly perfect caramel mocha latte and sighed. “You really are the best boyfriend ever. I hate you.”
“But your parents are going to love me next weekend .”
Rhys opened the car door for her. Because of course he did.
She got in and immediately tried not to look at the passenger-side cupholder, where he’d already tucked a backup sunscreen.
SPF 50. Her favorite brand. The kind that didn’t make her smell like coconuts and regret.
Stop it, she told her heart.
Don’t be weird about sunscreen. It’s just responsible skincare. Not a metaphor for caring. Shut up.
They drove in silence for a few minutes, windows down, wind in her hair, their iced coffees making faint clinks in the cupholders.
Then, casually, Rhys asked, “So. Should we hold hands? You know. To sell it for Ryan?”
“Ryan?”
“Yeah, you know? Sara’s date.”
“Of course you remember her date’s name.”
“I’m very committed to the role. So. Hand-holding? ”
Linda nearly aspirated on her mocha-not-macchiato. “Fake handholding. Right. Sure. Like actors. Method.” She held out her hand without looking at him. He took it without hesitation.
His thumb brushed hers once. Just a soft arc of pressure. Barely a touch.
And it burned.
He was her fake boyfriend. She was his beard. This was performance art. Like Shakespeare, but with lemon bars and slow ruin.
So why did his fingers feel like the safest place in the world?
They pulled into the park just as Sara and Ryan waved them down from a shaded spot under a tree.
Linda reached for the lemon bars. Rhys reached for the cooler.
Their hands brushed again.
Neither of them moved.
Linda took a deep breath and reminded herself this is fake . Everyone thinks it’s real. That’s the job.
Sir Stumps-a-Lot trotted ahead of them like a noble herald in picnic plaid, tail high, leading the way across the grass.
A blanket was spread out. A cooler rested beside it. And Sara was already sipping from a stainless-steel travel cup that almost certainly held wine.
Sara waved. “Look at this disgustingly cute domestic energy!”
Linda tried to smile. “We aim for nauseating.”
Rhys chuckled. “She’s just upset you beat us here.”
Ryan stood, brushing his hands off on his jeans as they approached. “Hey! Nice to finally meet the famous Rhys and Linda. Sara’s told me all about your brunch rituals.”
Linda blinked. “Brunch... rituals?”
Sara grinned. “You’re basically common law married. By pancake law—absolutely sacred.”
Rhys reached into the cooler like it was totally normal for people to call them common law married. He shifted through it, looking for a water. Linda saw him hesitate as he pulled up a jar of his favorite olives and a perfectly chilled Tupperware of watermelon feta salad—with red onions—which she hated with a passion and had said so often. Rhys enjoyed them.
Shit. She saw his face soften as he looked at her. Warm smile breaking his face open.
He handed her the sunscreen. No words. No asking. Just... handed it to her like he always did .
And she accepted it without thinking. Like she always did. Her heart made a sound she refused to name.
It was too easy. That was the problem.
They all settled on the blanket. Sir Stumps curled up between Linda’s feet with a happy sigh and immediately began judging everyone.
Linda tried to focus on arranging food instead of the fact that Rhys was sitting close enough that their legs touched.
Sara pulled out a bag of pita chips. “So, Ryan. Ask them your icebreaker question.”
Ryan grinned and wagged a finger between them. “Right! Okay—who said ‘I love you’ first?”
Linda choked on her lemonade. Rhys casually patted her back like this was a normal thing that happened all the time.
“That’s classified.” Rhys said, casually bumping Linda’s shoulder with his.
“Come on. There’s got to be a story.”
Linda started to speak, but Sara interrupted her. Said in an absolutely flat voice. “It’s a slow burn. You know the type. People who think they’re pretending, but they’re just falling really dramatically and everyone else has to watch.”
Linda smiled so hard her jaw hurt. “We’re very private.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to drop a feelings bomb. I just really like rom-com trivia.” Ryan said .
They ate. They laughed. Linda tried not to memorize how Rhys looked in the sunlight. How he always offered her the last bite. How he wiped a smudge of lemon curd from her cheek without thinking, like they’d been together for years.
She looked at Rhys, watching the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed at Ryan’s joke. Brunch soulmate, she thought.
And it hurt more than she expected.
Linda realized there and then, Sara was right. They’d have to fake-breakup.
As soon as he met her parents.