Chapter 5
Theo
There are worse people to fake-date I guess.
Finn takes my coat with a little bow like he’s auditioning for Downton Abbey. I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that sneaks in. I’m trying not to drop my clutch while we’re performing our perfectly-faked, lovey-dovey reunion date.
Then he shrugs off his own coat and—
Oh.
Right.
That’s not what I expected.
I mean, I’ve seen him shirtless a lot. He’s half-naked in most of his Instagram photos, thirst-trapping it hard.
But this is worse. It’s not so much his white, crisp, annoyingly well-fitted shirt.
It’s the contrast. The pink hair. The tattoos creeping past his rolled-up sleeves.
His tailored, navy trousers and the Air Jordans.
He looks intentional. A man who draws attention with purpose.
Finn is making an effort for Operation Dummy Pass, and I’m oddly proud.
To be fair, I am, too. I’m wearing the black polka-dot wiggle dress I bought in a vintage shop in London. Sweetheart neckline, cap sleeves, cinched waist. Cute, but comfortable. Nice, but not over the top.
‘Shall we?’ He presses a hand to the base of my spine.
It’s barely a touch, nothing but soft pressure. I bite down on the reaction and lock it behind my teeth. My shoulders stay squared. As if that’ll stop the flutter in my stomach.
Keep it together, MacMickin. Smile. Reinforce the illusion you’re head over block heels in love with a walking snack in trainers. How hard can it be?
He leans in a little, close enough to brush my hair as he murmurs, ‘You alright?’
No. Not really. He shouldn’t clean up this well. Or smell that way – fresh cotton, orange peel, clean skin. Sharp enough to catch in my throat, heady enough to make me want to lean closer.
‘Yeah, sure. I’m fine.’ I force a smile, and focus on the lighting, the flowers, the glasses on the tables. Not how my skin is on fire where he touches me.
The ma?tre d’ leads us to a corner table with a view of the entire restaurant. Perfect for visibility without making it obvious we want to be seen. Good choice.
Finn pulls out my chair. I sit, say ‘thank you’, and wonder if I’ve entered a parallel universe where rogue rugby players have manners.
He sits across from me, stretching his legs long under the table. One foot brushes mine. On purpose, no doubt.
‘Just so you’re aware, we’re being watched,’ I mutter behind the menu.
‘We’re always being watched.’ His mouth curves, smug as sin. ‘That’s the plan, right? So go on then, give them a show.’
I peek over my menu and clock the photographer planted two tables away to the side, sipping still water like it’s vintage wine. ‘Charlie should’ve hired someone less obvious.’
‘You’re adorable when you pretend this is your first rodeo.’
‘And you’re annoying when you pretend it’s not.’
‘Touché, chérie. Champagne?’
‘I’m more of a fizzy orange-juice kinda gal.’ I smooth the napkin across my lap.
‘Noted.’ He winks at the waiter. ‘One Fanta for my…erm…girlfriend, and I’ll take a ginger beer. Cheers.’
‘Careful not to choke on that word,’ I say over the rim of the menu. ‘I’m not qualified to perform a Heimlich.’
Seriously, his lopsided, cocky grin should come with a warning label.
Reckless, lit from somewhere deep, and aimed squarely at my better judgement.
My insides sway off-centre. It’s probably the pressure of playing a part I didn’t rehearse properly.
My nervous system’s responding to environmental stressors, not the man in front of me.
No matter how distractingly gorgeous his face might be when he decides to turn on the charm.
The waiter returns with our drinks and Finn raises his glass. ‘To convincing performances. I mean…to true love.’
I clink my glass against his. ‘To not making arses of ourselves.’
‘Making an arse of myself is my speciality.’
‘So I’ve gathered from your highlight reel.’
He flashes that maddening half-smile again. ‘Which part impressed you most?’
‘The unicorn onesie at the press conference was inspired.’
‘Ah, a classic.’ He sips his drink, mockingly lifting his little finger away from it. ‘It’s my favourite animal. Wait till you see the matching sleeping mask.’
I bite back a smile, but it slips out sideways anyway. ‘I didn’t expect anything less.’
I scan the menu, conscious of the photographer who keeps glancing our way, holding her phone up. ‘What are you having?’
‘Probably something separate,’ he says, browsing the options. ‘Can’t stand when my food touches.’
I lower my menu. ‘You’re joking.’
‘No. There are rules. Each veggie stays in its lane. Unless it’s a stew, a soup, or a lasagne. I’d never joke about food boundaries. I’m not a monster.’
I blink. ‘No, I mean… I’m the same. I use those sectioned plates at home.’
Surprise flashes in his eyes. ‘The plastic ones with the little barriers?’
‘Mine are ceramic, thank you very much. But yes.’
His grin turns triumphant. ‘Look at us, we’re like soulplates.’
‘Pipe down, Lennox.’ But I smile, unsure if him being funny puts me at ease or in danger.
Talking to Finn is easy. I keep waiting for the moment I’ll have to carry the conversation, but it never comes. His company is comfortable, which should make me suspicious. My brain should be pinging alarms. Instead, it kicks up its feet, and folds its arms behind its head.
The waiter floats over and launches into the specials like he’s announcing another royal birth. I nod along, half-listening. Finn orders the lasagne with garlic bread, I take the Scottish sirloin of beef burger.
Once the waiter leaves, Finn eases back in his chair. ‘So, Theodora MacMickin. Tell me something real. Since we’re going steady, I figure I should know more about you. How did you grow up?’
That’s a question that sounds harmless unless you understand what the answer can cost. A knock on a door that I’d rather keep closed. But he’s right, we need to know something about each other. Luckily, something is not everything and I can work with that.
‘Fife, a coastal village called Elie.’
‘Bit boring, then?’
‘Kind of.’ I take a sip of my drink. ‘My dad was in the Royal Navy and was away a lot before he retired last year. Mum is a sculptor. Middle class, I suppose.’
‘Sounds sheltered and cosy.’
‘Parts were. But not all of it.’ I twirl my glass and swallow the bitter taste that comes with remembering an absent father and a mother who couldn’t get out of bed most days. ‘What about you? Glasgow, right?’
‘Aye. Easterhouse.’
I know enough to recognise that’s not the easiest place to grow up. A place people have opinions about without ever setting foot there. ‘What was that like?’
‘Let’s call it character building.’ There’s a smile, but it lands late. As if he had to pull it on by the collar. ‘Learned to run fast early on. Came in handy for rugby.’
‘Your parents?’
‘My…biological father wasn’t around. Not that it was a loss. My maw worked her arse off and had her hands full with my two older sisters.’ He shrugs, casual, but his hand stays frozen tightly around the glass. ‘Not much to tell.’
‘Everyone has stories.’
‘Some aren’t worth sharing.’
His deflection is smooth and practised. I’ve used it myself. Keep it light, reveal nothing. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?
‘What were you like at school?’ I ask, to change the subject and perhaps level the field.
‘Suspended a lot. I was a wee gobshite.’ He laughs. ‘Didn’t like sitting still. Didn’t like being told what to do.’
‘Sounds like you.’
The food arrives, plates set down between us.
Finn lounges in his chair with the casual confidence of someone who knows what he looks like, with the sharp-edged bone structure to back it up.
Honestly, his face is unfair, that’s the only word for it.
Masculine to the point that makes it hard to keep your eyes away.
Lines softened by a mouth that probably gets him into and out of trouble more than it should.
Baby-blue eyes under long lashes. That’s a face that gets away with things all the time.
And I’m not thrilled that it’s working on me.
We eat in silence for a bit. Not awkward, but not easy either. I think I’m starting to see the man behind the front.
‘So,’ Finn says after a few bites, ‘what made you work with Charlie?’
‘I needed a fresh start.’ My gaze drops before I pull it back up. ‘London wasn’t working out, neither professionally nor personally.’
‘Ah, bad breakup?’
I flinch. ‘Something like that.’
‘Who’d leave you? Fuck that guy.’
I sit back in my chair, not far, but enough to mark distance, and adjust the napkin in my lap. ‘What makes you think I wasn’t the problem?’
‘Because you’re sitting here on your Saturday night, helping me fix my mess.’ He points his fork at me. ‘You’re a fixer, not a breaker. You care.’
I don’t have anything to say to that. It’s oddly perceptive, and it catches me off guard.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Too much?’
‘No, a bit unexpected.’
‘I’m full of surprises, darlin’.’ He smiles, and it’s miles apart from the charm he flashes for cameras or the cheeky trademark grin.
I’m ready with a sarcastic reply, but it never makes it out. Not when he smiles at me in a way that triggers a full cranial vasodilation response, which is the scientific term for what happens when your face glows like a traffic light.
As I said, debilitating.
‘Your turn again,’ I say quickly. ‘Why rugby? It looks like it hurts a lot.’
His smile morphs into a grin. ‘It does. But I had to channel my ang—…energy somewhere.’ He pushes his fork through the lasagne with a little too much focus.
‘My PE teacher shoved me into this Active Schools thing when I was nine. Coach there said I had legs and no fear, and sent me to a club team. Told me to show up and not fuck it.’
‘And did you?’
He gestures to himself. ‘Here I am, in all my glory. I fuck up everything else, but never rugby.’
‘There’s more to it than that.’
He pauses, fork halfway to his mouth. ‘Maybe. But that’s for the second fake date, don’t you think?’
He’s hiding something. Not just the usual deflection, but something deeper. It’s in the careful way he constructs each answer, revealing just enough to satisfy without exposing anything real.
It scratches at my curiosity. And that’s dangerous.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘But I’m onto you, Lennox.’
‘I bet.’ He reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. ‘The photographer got her phone out again.’
His skin is warm, rough in places. Every slow pass of his thumb drags awareness across my skin. I don’t get how someone built to break through walls can touch like this. But I let him.
‘You’re good at this,’ I admit.
‘So are you.’ His eyes meet mine. They’re bright and disarmingly direct. No smirk, no shield. He sees more than I want him to, and he doesn’t look away.
There’s that flutter again.
Because I wasn’t talking about being good at faking it. I was talking about the touching part. He’s an absolute genius at that.
Woah. This is only to save Elite Edge and Charlie. The job I love, I remind myself. A sacrifice, as he called it. But as I intertwine my fingers with his, the part of me that’s meant to stay untouched doesn’t feel so untouched anymore.
I’m in control. I’ve got this.
And if I keep thinking it, I might even believe it.