10. Sadie
10
SADIE
When the doorbell rings at six on the dot, I toss the wet washcloth I've had pressed to the back of my neck onto a side table and wipe my damp hands on the soft cotton of the flowy floral skirt I've chosen for tonight's date. Is thirty-three too early for a stress-induced hot flash? Because nerves have my insides sizzling like an egg in a frying pan.
Sally texted an hour ago to let me know they'd picked up Riva, as if I wasn't peeking through the curtains.
I'm showered and shaved—not that this night is going to require silky smooth skin. How many times can I remind myself of that before my body gets the memo?
I check my reflection in the mirror one last time, convinced a scarlet V will appear on my forehead given how much I'm overthinking all of this.
Max slowly pads to the door, curious but calm. I could learn something about self-possession from the old boy. The two boarders staying the night are already crated. It's a slow week for me thanks to Dogapalooza announcing a big summer special—book two nights of boarding and get a third free.
Certain clients—the ones who appreciate my bond with their furbabies—will stick with me no matter what financial incentive is thrown their way because they understand the level of care I give their dogs. The pack is my priority. Still, the slow migration of clients to Dogapalooza has been chipping away at my margins more than I care to admit, and I'm not in a position to discount prices.
But that's a worry for another time. Most of the time, in fact. Just not tonight.
Max nudges my leg, and I take a deep breath, plaster on a smile and open the door.
Then cough and sputter as I swallow my own spit at the sight of Ian wearing an olive-colored polo that sets off his tanned face and makes his azure blue eyes pop. Faded jeans sit low on his hips and leather flip-flops give the outfit just the right amount of Colorado casual cool.
His hair stands slightly higher than usual, like he might have used product after showering. Ian doesn't strike me as a product guy, but it's working for him. I also like that he made an effort for tonight more than is healthy.
As I bend forward in a futile attempt to stop choking like I'm about to hork up a chicken bone, he thumps me hard between the shoulder blades.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see that he's holding a small bouquet of daisies—my favorite flower because they'd been my mother's favorite.
Suddenly, the understanding that this night is all for show disappears. I want it to be real, and that’s a terrifying realization. It makes me vulnerable. I haven't done vulnerability for over a decade, and have no intention of starting now.
I should stand up, step back, and slam the door in his face, then call my sister and admit the whole farce before I well and truly fall for Ian Barlowe.
Too late , my ovaries chorus, doing jazz hands as they shimmy with excitement.
I straighten and wipe a hand across my mouth to stem the drool I feel oozing down my chin. An outstanding way to start the evening, if I do say so myself.
Sure, sure.
It's not like I live on an Amazonian island. I'm familiar with hot guys. There are plenty of them in Colorado. Not one can hold a candle to Ian as far as I'm concerned.
"Do you want water or a cough drop or something?" My cheeks flush as he searches my gaze like he's worried I might need the Heimlich. My back tingles when his giant palm presses against it, the fact that I can register any feeling other than humiliation at the moment a testament to the potency of his touch.
"I'm fine," I insist. "You didn't have to?—"
"Are you okay, Sadie?" Marla Pierce shouts from across the street. My longtime neighbor has lived on Elmwood Circle since the dawn of time and prides herself on keeping tabs on anything that involves one of the street’s residents.
"Fine, Marla," I call back. "Nothing to see here."
Ian's lips twitch as he removes the hand on my back to wave. Max gives me a supportive headbutt.
"What a gentleman to bring you flowers. Daisies were your mom's favorite."
"Yep. Have a good night, Marla." I grab Ian's arm and yank him into the house, muttering, "That woman needs a hobby," as I close the door. "This isn't the most auspicious start to the night."
He grins. "I expected it. And I'm kind of into the whole small-town busybody vibe. It beats paparazzi hiding in the bushes. Bet money she's already blowing up her grandma group chat with the news that we're on a legit date."
The words hit me like an ice bucket challenge.
This. Is. Fake.
Ian brought me flowers because he's selling our lie, and I have to both play along and remember it's not real.
He holds up the cheery bouquet. "Would you like to put these in water? Riva told me you like daisies," he adds gently.
Right. The flowers. Thankfully he doesn't mention Marla's comment about my mom. "Yes." I pluck them from his grasp. "Thank you. Flowers are a nice touch. Way to sell it."
His thick brows draw together, but he nods, and I hurry toward the kitchen, blinking away the tears that sting the back of my eyes. My mother adored daisies, and even after all these years, sometimes the emptiness of not having her here threatens to overwhelm me.
"I'm still not convinced this whole public dating scenario is necessary," I tell him as I return and open the front door. It's still sunny, and the light has that coveted golden-hour quality. The landscape appears softer, like everything is luxuriating in the lazy transition to summer.
The hiss of a sprinkler travels down the block and kids' laughter rings out from a nearby backyard. And while the world spins merrily on, I'm about to publicly deceive an entire community because I'm too much of a chicken to have a hard conversation with my sister.
I shove tortoise-shell sunglasses onto my nose, grateful for a brief reprieve from Ian's too-knowing gaze. It's ridiculous. The guy doesn't know me, so why does it feel like he can read me like the plot of some old-school romance? The kind where the virginal heroine is breathless and bewitched as she waits for the devilish duke to ravish her.
Heat pools low in my belly when he places that massive paw on my lower back, guiding me down the porch steps like I might take a tumble without him. As if he knows I'm distracted, thinking about being ravished. By him.
"This doesn't have to be a big deal," Ian assures me. "I need to eat. You need to eat. We're eating together—the kind of food served at a barn dance."
"Barbecue."
"Love it." He smiles. "We're having barbecue and dancing. A date. If people infer there's something-something going on between us, that sells this arrangement even more. That's what we want, right?"
Right. And I'm not a virginal Victorian heroine. Virgin, yes. Heroine, no. Regular people don't think in terms of ravishing, they think in terms of a little something-something. No strings attached…just checking off my bucket list item. I need to think like that.
"There's also a good chance no one is going to care." It’s a lie. Everyone will care. The bigger question is whether anyone will buy it.
"Yoo-hoo," Mrs. Morris shouts from her porch. "It's so good to see you getting out, Sadie. With a ma-a-an," she adds, drawing the word into at least three syllables.
"Thanks, Mrs. Morris," I call with a wave.
"When was the last time you went out with a ma-a-an?" Ian asks. "Why does everybody seem so shocked that you're dating?"
"Those are two very different questions, but equally loaded," I answer. "They're mostly shocked by the thought of me dating you. Plus, I typically keep my private life private from our nosy neighbors."
It's a less humiliating answer than I can barely remember the last time I went on a date .
He opens the door of his SUV. "But let's discuss this Bradley guy your sister is marrying."
I trip over nothing and come close to smacking my forehead into the door's corner, but Ian's warm hands steady me. He's kind enough to ignore my reaction as I straighten.
"I take it you're still hung up on him?"
So much for ignoring my reaction. I smile as I hoist myself into the weirdly elevated vehicle.
"I'm not hung up on him, and I'm happy for my sister. What kind of tires are these? Do you do a lot of off-roading? Why are they so tall?"
His mouth quirks, and he leans in, his breath fanning my cheek. "I do everything big, Sadie."
I huff out a laugh. "Bigger isn't always better."
He stares at me for a long moment. "But sometimes it is."
Add a British accent, and Ian Barlowe would have the part of the rakish duke locked up.
No whimpering, I silently command myself as he shuts the door and walks around to the driver's side.
"So are you sure this little favor you're doing for me isn't cramping your style?" I ask as he pulls out of the driveway. We both need a bit of grounding in the reality of our situation. At least I do. "I don't want to be on the bad side of whoever you're dating now."
That hint of a smile disappears. "I'm not dating at the moment. You don't have to worry about making anyone jealous."
Of course, I won't make anyone jealous. That's never been a possibility.
I turn and look out the passenger-side window. That's a harsh reminder, even delivered in his deceptively gentle tone. Who knows what people from Ian's real life will think if they see pictures of me with him? Probably that he lost a bet.
We drive in awkward silence for several minutes until he breaks it, asking, "So is this dance popular?"
I nod. "People around here love any excuse to congregate. We have a festival or art show or obscure event almost every weekend. As far as summer, the barn dances draw a decent crowd. Not quite as big as when the rodeo comes to town next month, or the Apple Festival and Brewfest in September. Not to mention the Christmas Extravaganza. I could keep going."
He chuckles low in his throat. "Extravaganza. That's a good word."
I adjust the seatbelt, cursing the fact that I've worn a thin T-shirt and a bra that isn't padded. One harmless chuckle from The Playmaker and my nipples are standing at attention.
Down, girls. I'm unsure how to ignore my body's repeated reaction to Ian, but I'm determined to stay in control no matter what.
"Extravaganzas are kind of our thing in Skylark. We have a rep to protect."
"Do you attend every one?"
"Mostly," I tell him. "A lot of my business comes from word of mouth, so I like to be out and about with the dogs. And the socialization is good when I'm training."
He turns onto the two-lane highway that leads toward downtown.
"I mean when you're not working. Do you go with friends or boyfriends? What does Sadie Hart do for fun in her off time?"
I swallow, because I need a minute to formulate a response. Should I make up stuff to sound less boring? This is all fake, anyway, so what's to stop me from being a different person with him?
Then reality sinks in. It's not easy to keep secrets in a small town, and we're already dealing with a whopper trying to sell this relationship thing. Mrs. Morris is the tip of the reactionary iceberg as far as my dating life is concerned, and it's ridiculous to think someone won't mention my story. Might as well head it off at the pass.
"My mom died when I was in college." I keep my eyes forward, unwilling to witness his reaction to that TMI bomb. "Piper was twelve, and she took it hard. I came home to raise her."
"I imagine you both took it hard," he interjects softly.
"Yes, well." I start to shrug, realize my shoulders are already hovering near my ears, and force them back down. "Of course it was hard for both of us, but I had the fact that I needed to find some way to support us to distract me.
“And I needed to be available for Piper. Mom cleaned houses and office buildings around town and did whatever else she could to make ends meet. She was gone a lot, especially after Piper was born, so I didn't want to be. She had nightmares about me getting in a car wreck or having an accident or leaving her. She needed to feel safe. So, long story short, I threw myself into building the dog business and caring for her.
“When she left, the routine kind of stuck. I have friends like Sally and Trina and my book club, but people know me as the dog lady. My social life is nearly non-existent."
I take a breath and add, "I haven't been to one of the barn dances since high school."
"Did you go with Bradley ?"
Ian says my soon-to-be brother-in-law's name with all the enthusiasm he might show a wet fart.
"With his friend group. We were always in a group, and that's fine. My life probably seems pathetic." I feel compelled to add that so he doesn't think I'm unaware of how mind-numbingly dull I am.
He drums a hand on the steering wheel. God, he has big hands. Hands that look like they could cup…well, a football for one thing. My ass for another.
"It doesn't sound pathetic," he answers. "I grew up in a postage-stamp town outside of Tulsa. My parents worked hard but never made much money. Football was a way out of the small town I desperately wanted to escape. It was the way out for me and my brother, and I was as singularly focused as you, although my motivation wasn't quite so altruistic. Still, it was me and Felix against the world, and I knew if I made it out, I could pave the way for him, too."
"Your brother plays football?" I ask.
He flashes a quick grin. "You really don't follow sports."
I shrug. "Piper played soccer, so I follow women's soccer. Megan Rapinoe is my favorite."
"She's cool," he agrees.
I feel my mouth drop open. "You know Megan Rapinoe?"
His grin widens. "We've met at some ESPN events. Have you Googled me at this point?"
"Maybe."
"What did you think of the underwear ads?"
"Didn't pay much attention, to be honest."
"I don't believe that for a second, Sadie. I think you're a secret fan of me in my skivvies." His voice pours over me like warm honey, and I don't want to think about all the ways he could make me sticky sweet.
I remind myself that all of this comes easy to Ian. Men like him can flirt and dole out sexual innuendos like dime-store bubble gum.
It doesn't mean anything. I don't mean anything. Which is how I want it.
It's why I'm in this predicament with a V card I can't shake. I don't know how to do a fling or a one-night stand.
Except Ian will be my fake boyfriend for the next few weeks until my sister's wedding. And if I'm going to toss my virginity down the field, I might as well throw it to a man with giant hands who knows how to use them. The thought has me squirming in my seat, but I manage a smile.
"Maybe I'll take a second look." I try to sound flippant, like I'm not a big fat failure at flirting. "And, at some point, maybe I'll compare the glossy ads to the real thing to see if bigger really is better."