Chapter Four — Rhett
Chapter Four
Rhett
By lunch, three separate people had congratulated me on my relationship.
One of them was my academic advisor.
“Callahan,” Professor Wynn said as I stepped into the economics building, “nice to see you settling down.”
I stopped in the doorway.
“I’m sorry?”
He smiled over the rim of his coffee.
“With Ms. Monroe.”
There were several possible responses.
Most of them would have made things worse.
So naturally, I chose the worst one.
“She’s keeping me grounded.”
Professor Wynn nodded like this confirmed something he had suspected for years.
“Good for you.”
I watched him walk away.
Then pulled out my phone.
The team group chat had forty-six unread messages.
Most of them were photographs.
One showed Tessa pointing a clipboard at me while I stood beside a collapsed table.
Another had been edited so the clipboard was replaced with a wedding bouquet.
A third showed us beneath a banner that read:
LAKEVIEW’S NEWEST POWER COUPLE
I stared at the screen.
Then typed:
Rhett: Whoever made the bouquet edit is dead to me.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Cam: It was Noah.
Noah: It was absolutely Cam.
Eli: Coach has seen it.
I stopped walking.
Rhett: What do you mean Coach has seen it?
Cam: He asked whether “community restitution” included public relations.
Rhett: I hate all of you.
Noah: Your girlfriend seems nice.
I locked my phone.
This was fine.
Embarrassing.
But fine.
Campus gossip moved fast and died faster. By tomorrow, somebody would fail an exam in a fountain or get caught climbing the clock tower, and Tessa and I would become old news.
Then my phone buzzed again.
A direct message.
From Paige.
Paige: Do not go near Tessa until she stops looking homicidal.
I turned toward the student union.
Then away from it.
Then back.
I was not afraid of Tessa Monroe.
I had survived overtime against Northbridge with a separated shoulder.
I had taken a puck to the mouth and finished the shift.
I had once sat through an entire team banquet beside Coach Mercer’s mother while she explained, in detail, why my haircut made me look unreliable.
Tessa was one woman.
One organized, sharp-eyed, unexpectedly funny woman who had told me not to make jokes about us being together.
And then the entire campus had apparently decided we were in love.
I headed toward the student union.
Not because Paige had told me not to.
That would have been childish.
I went because I needed to make sure Tessa knew I had not started the rumor.
That was responsible.
Adult.
Possibly self-preserving.
The student union smelled like industrial cleaner and wet drywall.
The damaged kitchen was closed off behind plastic sheeting. Facilities workers moved in and out carrying equipment.
Tessa stood near the information desk with a folder tucked under one arm and her phone pressed to her ear.
“Yes,” she said. “I understand.”
She listened.
Her shoulders tightened.
“No, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Another pause.
Her eyes closed.
“Dad.”
I stopped several feet away.
Not because I was eavesdropping.
Because walking past her while she was clearly having a family crisis would have felt rude.
And because the moment she said Dad, her entire voice changed.
Softer.
More careful.
Like she was trying not to set off an alarm nobody else could hear.
“I know what the post says,” she continued. “It’s a joke.”
She listened again.
“No, I’m not dating him.”
That landed harder than it should have.
Which was ridiculous.
We were not dating.
She was stating a fact.
A fact I agreed with.
Completely.
“Because I’m not,” she said. “I have the event under control. I promise.”
Her gaze lifted.
Found me.
Paused.
Then sharpened.
I raised both hands.
She turned away.
“No, that’s not him.”
I looked around.
There was nobody else within twenty feet.
I mouthed, Really?
She ignored me.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Another long pause.
“I’ll call you tonight.”
She ended the call and lowered the phone.
I waited.
Her eyes narrowed.
“You.”
“Me.”
“Why are you here?”
“I came to tell you I didn’t start the rumor.”
“You contributed.”
“I made one joke.”
“You told Cam I hadn’t asked you to marry me.”
“In context, it was funny.”
“It was not funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
She looked at me.
I corrected myself.
“Historically. Not currently.”
She folded her arms.
There was a faint crease between her eyebrows.
Not anger.
Stress.
“Is your dad upset?” I asked.
Her expression closed immediately.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Fair.”
I should have left it there.
Instead, I glanced at her phone.
“He saw the post?”
“He sees everything.”
“Campus parent group?”
“My aunt sends him screenshots.”
“That feels invasive.”
“That’s because it is.”
She looked down at the folder under her arm.
“He already thinks I’m distracted.”
“By me?”
“By everything.”
I waited.
When she did not continue, I leaned against the desk.
“You know, for someone who hates chaos, you seem to have a lot of people monitoring yours.”
Her gaze snapped to mine.
“That sounded insightful.”
“I have hidden depths.”
“I doubt that.”
“There she is.”
Her mouth almost moved.
Almost.
Then her phone buzzed again.
She looked at the screen.
The crease between her brows deepened.
“What now?”
She turned the phone toward me.
It was a post from Lakeview Confessions.
A blurry picture of us standing too close in the hospitality suite.
The caption read:
Callahan finally got benched by one woman and apparently decided to date her.
Below it, the comments were multiplying.
Some were jokes.
Some were worse.
One asked how long until I cheated.
Another asked whether Tessa knew what she was getting into.
I stopped smiling.
She took the phone back.
“This is exactly why I said no jokes.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
The word came out sharper than I intended.
She looked at me.
I pushed away from the desk.
“I said I didn’t start it. That doesn’t mean I think it’s harmless.”
Her posture shifted.
A fraction.
The comments kept loading.
I hated that.
Not because people were talking about me.
That part was normal.
But because they were talking about her like she had volunteered to be entertainment.
“You want me to shut it down?” I asked.
“How?”
“I’ll post something.”
Her eyes widened.
“No.”
“I can say we’re not together.”
“That will make it bigger.”
“Then I’ll make it boring.”
“You cannot make anything boring.”
“That sounded like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
I took out my phone.
She stepped closer.
“Rhett.”
I looked up.
Her hand was on my wrist.
Not gripping.
Just stopping me.
Every thought in my head scattered.
She noticed too.
Her fingers loosened.
But did not move right away.
“This will disappear,” she said. “We don’t feed it.”
“People are insulting you.”
“They don’t know me.”
“I know.”
The words came out before I could stop them.
Her eyes lifted to mine.
I knew pieces.
That she took her coffee without syrup.
That she arrived forty-five minutes early when she said thirty.
That she used color-coded symbols because she thought chaos could be defeated with enough preparation.
That she got scared when I stood on an unstable chair.
That she did not like being watched when she was tired.
That she looked at me like charm was something I had to earn the right to use.
Not enough to claim I knew her.
Enough to care that strangers did not.
She let go of my wrist.
“I can handle comments.”
“I’m sure you can.”
“That sounded patronizing.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Then what was it?”
I lowered my voice.
“You shouldn’t have to.”
For once, she had no immediate answer.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, she looked and groaned.
“What?”
She turned the screen toward me.
An email from Dean Walsh.
Subject: Family Weekend Promotional Opportunity
I read the first line.
Then the second.
Then I laughed.
Tessa did not.
“He wants us to host the opening together,” she said.
I read further.
Apparently, our accidental popularity had impressed somebody in university communications. They wanted me, as a hockey representative, and Tessa, as student-event coordinator, to welcome families at the showcase.
Together.
Onstage.
In front of several hundred people.
“This is incredible,” I said.
“This is a nightmare.”
“It can be both.”
“He thinks we’re dating.”
“Technically, he says we have ‘natural rapport.’”
“He attached the confession post.”
“Research.”
“This is your fault.”
“The fire was my fault. The gossip is communal.”
She started pacing.
Three steps toward the wall.
Turn.
Three steps back.
I watched her run through the problem.
“You can say no,” I said.
“No, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because the student activities budget is under review, and Dean Walsh controls the recommendation.”
“So?”
“So if this weekend goes badly, Paige and I lose half our funding next semester.”
I stopped smiling.
“That was not in the email.”
“It didn’t need to be.”
She looked toward the covered kitchen.
“All I need is for this event to look successful.”
“It will.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Pieces,” I amended.
She exhaled.
Then glanced at the email again.
“We host the opening. We smile. We make it clear we are working together. Nothing more.”
“Fine.”
“No flirting.”
“That seems unnecessarily restrictive.”
“Rhett.”
“Fine.”
“No jokes about dating.”
“Agreed.”
“No touching.”
I looked at the hand that had been on my wrist less than a minute ago.
Her cheeks colored.
“That was different.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking.”
“You do accuse me of that a lot.”
She ignored me.
“And if anyone asks directly, we tell the truth.”
“Which truth?”
“That we are not together.”
There it was again.
That small, irrational drop in my stomach.
I shoved it aside.
“Easy.”
She studied my face.
“Why did you say it like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you were lying.”
“I’m offended by how little faith you have in me.”
“You flirt recreationally.”
“I flirt conversationally.”
“There is no difference.”
“There is to me.”
She stared at the email.
Then said, slowly, “Actually.”
I did not like that word.
Not in that tone.
“What?”
Her gaze lifted.
Calculating now.
The same look she used on schedules and unstable furniture.
“Dean Walsh wants natural rapport.”
“We have that.”
“We have public bickering.”
“Which is natural.”
“And the campus already thinks we’re together.”
I waited.
She looked like she hated the thought forming in her own head.
Which made me love it immediately.
“How badly do you need this weekend to go well?” I asked.
“Very.”
“And how much do you hate asking me for anything?”
“Also very.”
I smiled.
She pointed at me.
“Do not enjoy this.”
“Too late.”
She took a breath.
Then another.
“One favor.”
I straightened.
The offer from the hallway.
Name your price, Monroe.
Apparently, she had remembered.
“What kind?”
“You help me get through the opening tomorrow.”
“I was already doing that.”
“You make the gossip useful.”
I blinked.
She looked away first.
“Clarify.”
“We don’t confirm anything.”
“Dangerous start.”
“We also don’t deny it.”
That shut me up.
For approximately two seconds.
“You want people to think we’re dating.”
“For twenty-four hours.”
“Tessa.”
“Only through the event.”
“You want me to pretend to be your boyfriend.”
“No.”
“That is the literal definition.”
“I want you to let people assume what they already assume.”
“While standing beside you onstage.”
“Yes.”
“Smiling.”
“Within reason.”
“Possibly touching?”
“No.”
I waited.
She sighed.
“Minimally.”
This was the best day of my life.
I kept my face neutral.
Mostly.
“What do I get?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“You owe me.”
“I do.”
“So this is repayment.”
“Repayment usually has terms.”
“You ruined my event.”
“A fact you mention with surprising frequency.”
“What do you want?”
The easy answer was to make a joke.
Dinner.
A kiss.
One genuine smile.
The kind of thing everyone expected from me.
Instead, I heard myself say, “You stop assuming every nice thing I do is part of an act.”
Her expression changed.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
“That’s vague.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means tomorrow, when I help you, you let me help.”
“I already do.”
“No. You supervise me.”
“You require supervision.”
“Sometimes.”
“Frequently.”
“Tessa.”
She quieted.
I shoved my hands into my pockets.
“For one day, don’t decide who I am before I do anything.”
The hallway around us seemed to go still.
Then she nodded.
Once.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Fine.”
I held out my hand.
She looked at it.
“What?”
“Agreement.”
“We are not making this official.”
“You just asked me to pretend-date you.”
“I specifically did not.”
“Then shake my hand as your temporary rumor-management partner.”
“That is not a real thing.”
“It is now.”
She looked at my hand again.
Then placed hers in it.
Her grip was firm.
Warm.
Quick.
It still did something inconvenient to my pulse.
“One day,” she said.
“One event.”
“No improvising.”
“Impossible.”
“Rhett.”
“Minimal improvising.”
“No kissing.”
“I had not suggested kissing.”
“You were going to.”
“I was considering whether you were going to.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
Neither of us let go.
Not immediately.
Her gaze dropped to our joined hands.
Then lifted.
There was no smile this time.
No joke.
Just awareness.
Sharp and sudden.
She pulled back first.
“Tomorrow. Eight a.m.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Seven-thirty.”
“Why do you keep changing the time?”
“Because I keep remembering who I’m working with.”
I smiled.
She pointed toward the door.
“Go.”
“Yes, temporary rumor-management partner.”
“Never call me that again.”
“No promises.”
I walked backward for several steps.
She watched me.
Then caught herself and looked down at the folder.
I turned before she could see my grin.
This was supposed to be one favor.
One event.
One day of letting people believe the rumor.
Easy.
Except I had spent years flirting with women I did not want to know better.
And somehow, the first woman who asked me to pretend was already the first one I wanted to stop pretending with.