The Hot Chocolate Hoax (Sweet Deceit #1)

Chapter 1

COVEY

“Not now,” I say to the phone buzzing in my pocket as I dig for the keys to my front door. No matter what I do, they end up buried somewhere in the bottomless pit of my tote bag. It’s probably some spam caller anyway, looking to extend the warranty on my car or some other ridiculous sales pitch.

The buzzing stops, which at least takes some of the pressure off. I snag my keychain with a finger and yank it out. “Gotcha.” As soon as I get the key in the lock, my phone starts to buzz again. Who the hell needs me this badly?

If it’s an emergency, they should call someone else. Someone who can help. Me? I’m not great in urgent situations, probably due to my complete lack of practical skills—that or what my family likes to describe as frenetic energy.

Pushing inside, I drop my bags on the floor and toss my keys into the bowl on the entryway table.

At least when I leave, I won’t have to worry about finding them.

That little dish has followed me around the world—literally—keeping my keys and other assorted items safe.

It’s the only system that’s ever worked for me.

If only there was an equivalent for tote bags.

My phone starts up again. “Fuck.” I groan and fish it out of my pocket.

Mom. Great, so either someone’s dead or she wants to know my favorite color for socks.

There’s no middle ground with her. She knows how to text but refuses to use it.

For the best, probably, since when she does, they come out as a garbled mess of misspellings, autocorrect errors, and random emojis.

“Hey, Mom. What’s up?” Hopefully, the frustration in my voice doesn’t come through.

At least when I lived in Europe, she scheduled times to call me, knowing that the time difference made random phone calls nearly impossible.

Now that I live not only in the same time zone, but in the same town, she’s decided it’s an open invitation to call anytime.

I love her, but it’s an absence makes the heart grow fonder situation.

“Covey, where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour.” I make my way to the kitchen and open the fridge, hoping dinner will magically appear.

“I just got home from rehearsal. What’s up?” I tense up for a minute, concerned that maybe this is one of the someone died calls.

“Are you still coming to dinner this weekend? Everyone’s excited about you being here. We haven’t seen you in forever.”

So, not a crisis.

For the record, forever is about three weeks. That’s how long it’s been since I was last at my parents’ house.

The fridge shelves are a graveyard of fresh fruits and vegetables I bought with the best of intentions, but have let go bad.

Grocery shopping is on my list of things to do, but it keeps getting pushed to the bottom.

Which means I’m stuck with leftovers. Again.

“I’ll be there.” I put the phone on speaker and start the process of reheating my food.

After a day of long dance rehearsals, I’m starving and exhausted.

If I’m not careful, I’ll end up picking sleep over sustenance.

“And you’re bringing your mystery boyfriend?”

“Uh, I’m not sure he can make it.” He’d love to, but since he’s swamped these days. What with being imaginary and all.

“Oh, please try, Covey. You’ve told us so little about this man who’s taking up all your time.”

I mute the phone for a second so I can let out a groan. There’s no one to blame for this situation but myself. For years, I managed to stay off my family’s when are you going to settle down radar by being an ocean away. It was the perfect arrangement.

Now, for the first time since my early teen years, I live in the same city as my parents.

The Green Mountain Ballet Company offered me a contract, and I jumped at the chance to come home.

Initially, I hesitated at the idea of moving back, but the slight pay increase and the opportunity to work with some incredible choreographers sold me on the deal. No downside. At least professionally.

What I didn’t anticipate was the interference from my family.

The minute my plane landed, they started bugging me about settling down.

Literally. It was on the drive from the airport to my rental house that the topic first came up.

Give a guy a few days. Did they expect me to meet someone at baggage claim?

A month ago, in a moment of weakness, I invented a boyfriend.

“I’ll ask.”

“Ask extra nicely. It must be hard on your boyfriend to work around your schedule.” Another frequent topic of conversation.

My work hours aren’t unpredictable, but they aren’t stable.

Rehearsals, classes, and performances are scheduled well in advance, often with over a year of notice, but they aren’t on a set schedule.

And it certainly isn’t a nine-to-five position.

No one’s coming to see Swan Lake at two PM on a Wednesday.

“I’ll even say please,” I assure her as I pull my dinner from the microwave.

“Okay, well, I’ll tell everyone the two of you will be there. They’ll be looking forward to meeting him.”

“Me, too,” I mumble under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing. See you Saturday.”

“Bye, Covey. Love you.”

“Love you, Mom.” I stare at the dark screen of my phone. There’s no way I’m going to come up with a boyfriend—fake or otherwise—by Saturday. If it was that easy, I’d already have one.

I grab my dinner and take it over to the small kitchen table in the corner.

I don’t feel like eating, but I know from experience that it’ll hurt if I skip over it, no matter how tired I might be.

Ballet burns a lot of calories, and it’s easy to drop weight and muscle, especially over the winter, if I ignore my diet.

While I eat, I scroll through my contacts, looking for anyone willing to pretend to be my date.

Nothing. After years away, I don’t know that many people in Vermont.

As a new dancer with the company, I don’t have any favors to call in from my fellow dancers.

If anything, I owe several people favors for helping me settle in.

Plus, explaining this embarrassing situation is not on my list of priorities.

I’m still trying to pretend to be vaguely normal.

They’ll eventually discover the truth, but I’d like to hold onto the delusion a little longer.

Okay, I’m not going to solve this issue tonight. Instead, I focus on the things I can control, such as cleaning the kitchen, unpacking my bags, and getting ready for bed.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and a boyfriend will fall into my lap overnight.

AIDAN

“Mr. Matthews?”

“Yes, Bradley.” I grit my teeth as the words leave my mouth. I adore all my students, honest, but Bradley is using my last nerve as a jump rope today.

“Sarah touched my picture,” he says in the whiniest voice imaginable. And me saying that is something. After teaching kindergarten for three and a half years, I’ve heard a lot of whining.

“Did she hurt it?” I ask, glancing at the clock. There are only ten minutes until the end of this long day, at the end of a demanding week. I can’t wait to get home, climb in the shower, and stand under the water until it scalds my skin off.

I’d bathe in bleach if it was an option. So far this week, three kids ended up with lice, four threw up, and two tested positive for strep. This job should come with hazard pay.

“No.” His bottom lip starts to quiver. “But she touched it.”

Too bad for Bradley, but I’m impervious to that whole about-to-cry look. Somewhere around month five of this job, it stopped working on me.

“Then I think you should sit down and finish coloring. The bell will ring soon.” I’m saying that as much for him as I am for myself.

Bradley stares at me in disbelief for a second before huffing back to his seat, muttering the whole way.

I glance at the clock again. The hands haven’t moved. Maybe it’s broken? Before I can think too hard about it, a crash followed by the wail of a five-year-old has me scanning the room.

“Damon, it’s okay.” I coo as I approach the sobbing boy. “Are you hurt?” I look for signs of blood or injury, but find only spilled paint water. Thank God. The nurse is going to think I’m personally causing these issues if I have to call her to my room again this week.

My relief doesn’t extend to Damon, who’s in full meltdown mode, chest heaving as big tears roll down his face.

“It’s just water. Everything’s okay.” The water might be a little dirty, but in the grand scheme of things, it doesn’t matter. This floor’s seen worse. Much worse.

“But… I… It’s…” A second round of sobs starts, and I try not to look annoyed. The last thing this kid needs right now is an actual reason to be upset.

“How about you be a big helper and grab me some paper towels. Can you be my helper?” It’s fifty-fifty whether this tactic will work.

For a second, I’m sure he’s going to start crying all over again, but after a brief pause, he wipes his face on his sleeve and walks toward the sink, dragging his feet the whole way.

I breathe out a sigh of relief. One crisis under control. Now for the mess. Luckily, I never fill the cups very full—the reason is apparent—so the spread is limited.

Graciously, the bell rings right as Damon hands me two small paper towels. Two.

“Thanks, Damon. Why don’t you grab your things and head out? I’ll see you next week.”

He doesn’t even give the mess a second look as he skips off to find his coat and backpack, leaving me to deal with the mess. Any chance there’s a second bell that magically gets me out of this?

Nope. Guess it’s me and these paper towels versus the gray water dripping from the tabletop.