Chapter 11 #2
We’re both laughing now, and suddenly the weirdness from earlier dissolves.
This is us. This is what we do. We make each other laugh even when life delivers a dump truck full of lemons.
The conversation turns into questions about Posh’s real name (would a parent actually write that on a birth certificate?
!) and a discussion about what we’d name our children (respectively, not together.
Though I do like her suggestions of Kelsey for a girl and Caleb for a boy).
Meanwhile, my phone has been buzzing in the kitchen. When we start to clean up, I check it and find ten messages from Whitaker. It buzzes in my hand. Make that eleven.
“Let me guess, that’s Whitaker.”
“Yep. He wants an update on whether we officially accept the Love at First Wag offer.”
Standing by the sink, April stiffens. “You mean our fake dating thing?”
I belatedly realize that my comments about all the fake dating probably cemented in April’s mind that she’s just part of the churn. My phone beeps again.
“He won’t let up.”
“Let’s see what we’re getting into,” she says with a sigh.
I pull up the contracts as we return to the table. She scoots her chair closer and I inhale her lilac scent as we huddle over my phone.
The contract is surprisingly detailed, including public appearances, social media posts, and joint photoshoots. The campaign runs from now until early May. There’s a non-disclosure agreement and at the bottom, a number with a lot of zeros.
“That’s a lot of money,” April breathes.
“It is.” Even after all these years, I’m still astounded by and grateful for how much money I’ve acquired—I’ve offered to fund the Barkery, but April won’t hear of it.
“Although if you switched the zeros around, you could only buy three-quarters of a latte.”
I snort. “Math genius over here.”
“I contain multitudes.” She scrolls through the contract. “So we have to act like a couple in public?”
“Looks like it.”
“Define ‘act like a couple.’”
“I don’t know. Hold hands? Go on dates? Post cute photos?” I suggest.
“Kiss?” She says it so quietly I almost miss it.
I nod slowly.
“The kiss cam doesn’t count?”
I scratch my temple, worried she might back out—because then I’ll have to deal with Whitaker. I won’t let myself speed toward disappointment because I’ll even fake date April if it means being close to her.
I say, “That was for the crowd.”
She shifts uncomfortably. “Right. For the crowd. So we’d have to do it again?”
“I would think so.”
She bites her lip, eyes darting to me and then away, back again, and at the window. Either she’s having serious doubts or … I don’t dare let myself think that she liked it. Though she did kiss me back. She leaned into me. Her pulse practically had her trembling in my arms.
My phone beeps and I consider turning it off. April grabs it from the counter and hastily types. I peer over her shoulder and read as the letters appear. Yes, we’re doing it. Relax.
“So it’s official?”
April draws a deep breath. “We’re officially fake dating.”
My pulse takes off at a sprint as I take a risk. “In that case, maybe, um, we should practice? I mean, Badaszek would suggest that.”
April’s eyes widen slightly and she sputters. “Practice kissing?”
I search for the right words. “So we’re not fumbling around in front of the cameras.”
She nods slowly, but her throat bobs on a hard swallow. “That makes sense.”
Except there’s nothing sensible about the way my heart is hammering against my ribs at the thought of kissing my best friend ... again. My entire body is still shivering and burning from the kiss cam kiss.
“Badaszek says practice makes champions.” I instantly regret bringing up my gruff coach.
“He would know,” she chirps as if trying to convince herself of something.
I stand up from the table, and April does too, looking uncertain. But we’re in my loft, surrounded by dogs and the evidence of our dinner—just a normal evening with April … as I prepare to show my best friend what it would be like if we were really together.
“Okay,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “So if we weren’t friends. If we were actually dating and this were real ...”
Her eyes flit to mine and her gaze dips to my lips—or maybe she’s just sleepy from the heavy meal. “Yes?”
I step closer, but don’t touch her yet. Just close enough that I can see her chest rising and falling a little faster than normal.
“First, I’d probably do this.” I reach out slowly—giving her time to pull away—and tuck a curl behind her ear. My fingers linger for just a second against her cheek. “Little touches. Nothing big. Just ... contact.”
Her breath hitches. “Okay.”
“Then maybe this.” My hand slides to her shoulder, my thumb tracing her collarbone through her shirt. “Casual. Comfortable. Like I can’t help touching you.”
“Right. Casual.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“And I’d probably …” I let my hand drift down her arm until I find her hand. Our fingers lace together, and electricity shoots up my arm. “I’d hold your hand. Like this.”
“This seems ... very detailed.”
“We want to avoid awkwardness.”
“Of course.”
She swallows again, a faint smile on her lips. I’m stirred up, from head to toe and ignore my vibrating phone along with the doubts that careen into each other.
I say, “Touch me.”
“What?”
“So we’re comfortable in public.”
“We’ve touched loads of times.” She pokes my arm once, twice.
It cannot be helped, I flex.
Her throat bobs and her voice is shaky when she says, “See? I just touched you.”
I chuckle. “We’ve never touched like boyfriend and girlfriend.”
“Hmm,” she says as if considering this.
“We can’t just act buddy-buddy. No one will buy it.”
“Seems like you’ve done this before.”
“Fake date? Not like this.” But I’ve thought about this a hundred times—what it would be like to cross the boundary line, emerge from Friend Tundra. To be with April.
I lift our joined hands and press a kiss to her knuckles, my eyes never leaving hers. “If this were real, I’d do things like that. Small gestures that say you’re mine.”
Her pupils are dark now, nearly swallowing the brown of her eyes. “And the actual kissing part?”
This is where I should stop. Where I should laugh it off and sit back down and tell April that we’re getting carried away. That we probably shouldn’t go further.
Instead, I step even closer.
“If this were real,” I say quietly, my free hand coming up to cup her face, “I wouldn’t kiss you like I did for the kiss cam. Quick and appropriate and over before it started.”
“No?” Her lips part.
“No.” My thumb brushes across her cheekbone. “I’d take my time. Make sure you felt it.”
“Clark—” Her eyes search mine.
“If this were real, April ...” I lean in slowly, giving her every opportunity to stop me. “I’d kiss you like—” I’ve wanted to for ten years.
Before I finish the sentence, my lips find hers.
It is nothing like the kiss cam.
I kiss her slowly, thoroughly, like I’m trying to memorize every inch of her lips. My hand slides into her hair, angling her head just right, and when she returns the kiss, every coherent thought I have scatters like leaves in a windstorm.
Her hands find my arms and she closes the space between us. I’m drowning. I’m flying. I’m completely and utterly lost in the feel of her mouth against mine, soft and sweet and perfect.
In my daydreams, there are no consequences to this.
No risk of ruining our friendship.
No fear of losing her if this goes wrong.
In my daydreams, I can kiss April Hansen and keep her forever.
Reality crashes back when we both need to breathe. I pull away slowly, reluctantly, my forehead inclined toward hers while we both try to remember to inhale and exhale.
“That,” I manage, my voice wrecked, “is what it would look like if this were real.”
April’s eyes are still closed, her fingers gripping my shirt. “Oh.”
“Too much?”
“No. I mean—” She finally opens her eyes, and what I see there makes my heart stop. “That was very ... instructive. I can see why hockey players practice so much.”
“Practice. Right.” I force myself to step back, to put space between us before I do something really stupid like kiss her again. “So now we know what to expect, what to do. For the cameras.”
“For the cameras,” she echoes, sounding dazed.
We stand there for a long moment, both breathing too hard, both pretending that didn’t just fundamentally change everything.
Then Buster waddles over and sits on my foot, breaking the tension as he barks once, which April and I both know means he would like his nightly treat. Yes, the very good boy is spoiled and right now, after that kiss, I feel the same. But now what?