Chapter 4 #2
Whatever the case, if Kelvin recognized my fake boyfriend on sight, I probably should have too. Now is when knowing his identity or at least his name would really come in handy.
“Great to meet you, man. Big fan of your dad’s. And yours,” Kelvin adds hastily, extending a hand.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t also extend the guy’s name, so I'm still in the dark as my fake boyfriend maneuvers me to his side with one hand so he can shake Kelvin’s with the other.
“You too,” he says. He’s still smiling but it’s a little more forced. “I’ve heard great things about Brightmark. My dad was really excited you decided to make Sheet Cake an anchor location.”
His dad … hm. I’m trying to put context clues together but so far, they’re not computing. Kelvin, who works in the entertainment industry, knows his dad too. Is my fake boyfriend a nepo baby of some kind?
Anchor location … maybe his dad works at Brightmark? His expression shifted at the mention of his dad. His easiness disappeared and became more of a mask.
Sore subject, maybe?
Fake boyfriend’s arm stays wrapped around my waist. Affectionately, or maybe like he thinks I might run. Also, I can’t keep calling him fake boyfriend in my head. He needs a name, even if temporary.
Mr. Biceps will have to do.
“Vespa will be thrilled,” Kelvin says. “She doesn’t look like she would be, but that’s just her face. She’s a big fan. Vespa!”
Kelvin waves the exec over as I consider what Vespa might be a fan of, still trying to puzzle out who the man beside me is. With her intense vibe, I can’t see Vespa being a fan of anything really. Maybe ultra-modern architecture? Futuristic novels? Spreadsheets?
But something crosses her face as she approaches, which must be her version of excitement. Looks like mild constipation.
Who the heck is my new fake boyfriend? My best guess is a toss-up between a movie star and a Texas politician.
“Figured it out yet, darlin’?”
I’m startled when Mr. Biceps speaks, practically nuzzling my ear. A very appropriate boyfriend action, but one I like a little too much considering the fake qualifier in front of his title.
His words sink in, and I realize what they mean. He’s implying that he thinks I should know who he is.
Maybe he’s not an actor or politician but an influencer of some kind. Fitness, by the looks of those arms. This is entirely possible, though the dad comment is throwing me.
He and I might have connected online but certainly not in person. I would remember.
The blue eyes with the hint of amusement. The gentle twang when he calls me darlin’. His biceps.
Why can’t I stop staring at his arms?
I’m going to blame the athletic shirt he has on. It would be a generic T-shirt, but the material has the thin, clingy quality revealing more than a hint about what he’s got going on underneath. And what’s going on are some really nice arms. Mr. Biceps really is the perfect placeholder name.
“Not even a guess?” he asks. Did he get even closer?
I try to shove the stuffed unicorn between us, but it’s hard when he’s got one hand clamped on my hip.
I narrow my eyes. Where do I know him from? And why don’t I remember? This man screams memorable.
But Vespa appears and we’re thrown into a steady stream of boring introductions and conversations with people at Brightmark whose names I should remember aside from Case, an executive, and Jilly, who was recently promoted to director.
Everyone else is a blur. I can’t possibly commit to remembering when my brain is stuck on puzzling through the man who never stops touching me.
And despite my desperation to know it, no one says his name. I might be the only person in this room who doesn’t know my supposed boyfriend’s name.
Whoever he is, he’s fully committed to this charade. I should be grateful, but it still feels like some kind of trick. Especially now.
Surely, I can’t be the only one in the room who is unaware of who he is. But almost everyone seems to. I can visibly see the whispers as people pass the info along. They’re met with wide eyes and double takes.
I’m starting to sweat. Who did I happen to convince to be my fake date, and why couldn’t it have been someone normal? Not someone everyone knows. A guy I apparently should know. I already felt off-kilter.
Now, I’m wondering if I ever even had a kilter to begin with.
The stuffed unicorn is my only friend. And it’s not even mine.
“Who does this belong to?” I ask as we take seats around the folding tables. I give the unicorn the seat next to me. She’ll make a perfect buffer between me and anyone else who might sit down and ask questions about my boyfriend that I can’t answer.
“She belongs to Jo.”
“Who’s he?”
“She.”
I drop my sandwich as my head swivels slowly toward him. “Jo is a she?”
Mr. Biceps nods, looking completely casual. “Mm-hm.”
“You said you were single. Is Jo your girlfriend?”
He laughs. “No.”
I swallow. He’s not wearing a ring. But …
“Your wife?” I whisper.
Beside me, he chokes, and Kelvin appears, slapping him on the back. “You okay, man? Someone get him some water!”
“Thank you.” Taking a sip from one of several bottles of water people thrust in front of him, he meets my gaze. Winks.
Forget cute and charming. He’s infuriating. An infuriating, button-pushing charmer with admittedly great arms.
“I said I was single, didn’t I?” he asks in a low voice. I still glance around in a panic in case anyone heard. But the room is full, and the acoustics make it hard to distinguish any conversations around us. It’s just noise.
“So, then who’s Jo?”
“Jo is my niece.” He wipes his mouth. “My dad won this for her, and I was instructed to keep it safe. Actually …”
He pulls out his phone and before I can duck out of the frame, he snaps a picture of me and the unicorn, then fires off a text.
“Sending proof of life,” he says, setting his phone face down on the table.
I wonder what he said about me. Did he say anything about me? Maybe he cropped me out before he sent it. But the way his phone starts buzzing almost immediately makes me think I was definitely in the picture.
He takes a big bite of his sandwich, smiling as he chews. “What?” he asks.
It shouldn’t be cute. It still is.
“I can’t figure out your game.”
“What game?”
“The one you’re playing with me.”
He shifts his arm to the back of my chair, letting his thumb trail over the bare skin above the top of my dress.
“I do like games. So long as both parties are playing by the same set of rules. This?” He gestures between us with his other hand.
“Is your game. You asked me to play, but I’m still not sure about the rules or how to win.
Or”—he pauses and for a few heart-pounding beats, he stares at my lips—“the prize.”
Gulp. Does this make me the prize? Does he want to win? Suddenly this feels like the most important game I’ve ever played.
But he’s wrong. It’s not my game, and I don’t know the rules. The object seems to be surviving this luncheon and walking away with a job.
Aside from that, I have no idea.
“I’m just trying to keep up with you,” he continues. “And maybe having a bit of fun along the way.”
His words seem steeped in layers of meaning. And his delivery, in a low, deep voice with his blue eyes fixed on mine, makes me shiver.
At the head of the conference table, Kelvin stands and begins a boring introduction, which I only half listen to.
Maybe ten percent listen to. Because I’m way more invested in this little side conversation with my not-real boyfriend.
Though given my apparent penchant for not remembering people, I should be paying attention to Kelvin introducing the various people in this room.
“I wasn’t trying to play a game,” I say, feeling unsteady and suddenly a little weepy when I think about my current life circumstances, my desperation for this job to work, and the lie I have to maintain—at least temporarily—if there’s any hope of me sticking around.
Crying at this moment would be the worst thing in the world, so I draw in a breath and do my best to keep my words even. “I just needed help.”
My voice only breaks a little. On the word help, of course. I know I’m not the only one who hates asking for help. Who hates needing help. This is common for many people. But it’s my very particular Achilles’ heel.
I’ve always wanted to be strong and independent like Chase. My big brother has always seemed kind of perfect. Even in his ability to shrug off Dad’s control and set up a new life several states away. He seemed to cut ties—or at least, greatly distance himself—so easily.
Unlike Chase, who really did seem to have things come easy, I had to fight for so much. Academics. At times, self-worth. The ability to say no when my father tries to make me do something.
I’m such a coward that I didn’t even tell my parents I was going to Austin, afraid they’d somehow keep me from going to visit Chase.
I packed a bag and took an Uber, sending a text only once I’d landed in Texas. I might have a college degree, but I feel like a child in so many ways.
Beside me, Mr. Biceps’s expression softens, and his hand moves from my chair to a spot between my shoulders where he rubs a slow circle with his thumb. It’s meant to be calming, and it is, but it also awakens a whole lot of nerve endings I’m not sure have ever been engaged before.
In a flash, this look paired with this touch seems to obliterate the memories of every guy I’ve ever liked.
“Then I’ve got you, darlin’,” he says, leaning toward me until I’m dangerously close to drowning in those blue eyes. “And I’ll help with anything you need.”
If we weren’t sitting at a table with a bunch of strangers, this would be one of those inevitable kiss moments. The tension between us isn’t crackling; it’s a roaring fire about to take down the building.
He’ll help me with whatever I need? Okay, nameless guy with the biceps and the eyes and the honeyed words, I’m gonna get started on a list of what I need. Stat. And it will be long.
But as for immediate needs, there is only one.
“Okay. Tell me your name.”
He opens his mouth but before he can speak, the door flies open and what feels like a whole army of people enter the room.
No—not an army. Just my brother, his wife and …
The Grahams.
Tank and Pat and James and—my eyes land on the man seated beside me, whose arm falls away at the sight of my brother’s frown—Collin.
The realization hits me with all the subtlety of an uppercut.
“And this is when location sharing with your family is a bad idea,” Collin mutters.
Out of an entire fairground full of people, I asked Collin Graham, a man I’ve met and should absolutely have remembered, to be my fake boyfriend without recognizing who he was.
I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out when he mentioned Jo. His niece. Harper talks about her all the time. So stupidly obvious. But somehow, in the high-stress environment and with this being totally out of context, the connection simply didn’t make sense.
Until now.
Collin grins, the smile of a man who knew who I was the whole time, but it’s lost the teasing edge. “Guess the pieces are falling into place, huh?”
I feel so terrible. This whole time he knew me and knew I didn’t remember him. I’m going to blame his beard, which really does give him a different look. And my stress, for pushing me into a kind of fight or flight mode.
“Collin,” I start.
Then, I realize the significance of my brother and the Grahams being in this room without knowing the story Mr. Biceps—Collin—and I are spinning. They could wreck everything right now.
Collin seems to realize this at the same time. There’s a tiny widening to his eyes and then he grabs my hand, lacing our fingers as he stands and tugs me toward the confused group of our family members.
He hugs Chase first, and I hear Collin whisper, “You can punch me later.”