Chapter 12
CLARK
I scratch my dog’s head and give him a biscuit.
“So …” April says, her voice slightly unsteady as she tucks her hair behind her ear—the same unruly curl I just touched as we practiced kissing. “Maybe we should establish rules?”
“Rules?” I’m still trying to get my brain to restart. “For fake dating?”
“Yeah. Like boundaries. Things we will and won’t do. So nobody gets confused or uncomfortable.”
Too late for that. I’m already completely confused and uncomfortably aware of how much I want to kiss my best friend again.
“That’s actually smart.”
She grabs the same notepad I used for the note I left for her this morning. “Okay. Rules for fake dating. Rule number one ...”
We both sit back down at the table, careful not to touch. I try to focus on making a list instead of replaying that kiss in my head.
I fail spectacularly.
Because now I know exactly what it’s like to kiss April Hansen, like I mean it.
And I’m not sure how I’m supposed to go back to pretending I don’t want to do it again.
And again.
And again.
“This is harder than I thought,” she admits.
It sure is.
“Rule one,” I say slowly. “We tell each other the truth. About everything. No secrets.”
Except for how I feel about her. That’ll end things before they even have a chance to begin.
She writes it down. “Rule two: No dating other people while we’re fake dating each other?”
“Is that a thing people do?”
“I don’t know! I’ve never fake-dated before!”
We’re both laughing again.
“No double fake dating. Moving on. Rule three: We check in regularly. Make sure we’re both okay with how things are going.”
“Good idea.” I lean back in my chair, getting comfortable because April is the only person in the world I could really fake date.
Whitaker never expressly said I was fake-dating any of the women he set me up with, but for me, it wasn’t real.
We’ve been friends for years, but what would I say?
How do I tell him I fundamentally disagree with his approach to my career?
I realize that it’s not the best logic, but I didn’t want to risk losing his friendship and potentially April if I’d asked to take her on a real date.
Letting out a breath, I say, “Rule four: We establish a special word.”
“A special word?”
“Yeah. Like if things get too weird or uncomfortable while in public, either of us can say it and we take a break.”
“What’s the word?”
I look around the apartment. My eyes land on Howie the garden gnome, who’s sitting on my kitchen counter because he found his way into my home from the arena last night. As one of the newer guys on the team, I sense it’s an initiation. Like they want to see what I do with it.
“Howie,” I say.
“The gnome?”
“Why not? It’s random enough that we won’t say it by accident.”
She writes it down. “Okay. Rule five: We keep the dogs out of it.”
“The dogs are already in it. They’re part of the campaign.”
“I mean, we don’t use them as emotional support animals if things get weird.”
“So I can’t cuddle Buster when I’m confused about my feelings?”
Her expression falls and then she throws a wadded-up napkin at me. “You can cuddle Buster anytime. Just don’t blame-dump your emotional problems on him. He’s secretly sensitive. Imagine how confusing it would be if he thinks we’re dating and then you actually fall in love with someone random?”
“I would never,” I say too quickly.
Her eyebrows lift.
“I mean, while we’re fake dating, there won’t be time for me to so much as meet anyone else.
Plus, I probably need a break from Whitaker’s meddling.
We have the playoffs coming up. I have to focus.
” Thankfully, for me, April fully understands that.
In fact, she, of all people, supports me when I have to go hard in hockey.
Women like Lyric and Posh would probably get ticked off that they weren’t getting enough attention.
April clears her throat and says, “Rule six: No falling in love.”
The words sail through the air like a flaming arrow toward dry brush on the roadside.
“No falling in love,” I repeat.
April’s smile falters. “That would be ... bad.”
“Terrible,” I agree, even though my heart is pounding against my ribs like a prisoner who knows it’s already too late for that rule.
“Rule seven,” she says quickly. “When this is over, we go back to being friends. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” I echo.
She adds it to the list. “Any other rules?”
“Just one more.” I meet her eyes. “Rule eight: We have fun with this. If we’re going to fake date, we might as well enjoy it.”
“I can do that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her dimple pops when she grins. “Although I reserve the right to tease you mercilessly.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
We finish cleaning up and Scout paws at the door.
“Someone needs to go O-U-T,” April observes.
“All of them, probably.” I glance toward the window. It’s dark but not too late. “Want to come?”
“That depends. Are you going to tell me more cringy moments about your date with Posh?”
“There were several.”
She tilts her head from side to said as if considering. “Then yes.”
We leash up the dogs and April wears a pouch that’s kind of like a baby carrier. She pops Purdy inside of it until she wants to get down and walk—usually not until she knows we’ve turned around and are on our way home. Our pack heads out into the crisp spring evening.
I grab Howie the gnome from the counter on our way out. “I think the best place to return this is the Barn. Leah is going to wonder where he went.”
“They’re going to think you stole Coach Badaszek’s mascot.”
“I didn’t steal him! Honest.” I tell her about how I suspect this is a test from the guys.
April laughs as we make our way down the stairs and onto the street. The dogs are pulling in different directions until she reminds them who’s boss. I take Moose and Buster. She’s got Scout and Purdy.
“I can’t believe you kidnapped Howie,” she jokes.
“It was an accident! The team was celebrating and someone put him in my bag and—you know what, I’m not explaining myself. The gnome has been through a lot.”
“Like when Robo’s brother used him to terrorize him and Leah?”
“Exactly like that.” I imagine she heard the stories from the WAGs, which just points to the fact that April fits right in. She’s practically one of them.
We walk through downtown Cobbiton, past the closed shops and the streetlights that glow warm against the cool night.
The Barn looms ahead, its converted exterior a mix of rustic charm and modern renovation—what will eventually be Leah’s hockey museum.
“Should we just leave him at the door?” April asks.
“And miss the opportunity to see what Leah’s working on? Absolutely not.”
“That seems like breaking and entering.”
“This is Cobbiton. No one locks their doors.”
Sure enough, as I assumed, it’s unlocked, and we slip inside with our canine entourage.
The space used to house an ice rink and one day will again.
However, right now, it’s mid-build, but incredible, outfitted with old hockey jerseys framed on the walls with room for more, vintage equipment displayed in glass cases, and photos chronicling the history of Cobbiton hockey from youth leagues to the Knights.
“Wow,” April says, turning in a slow circle.
I set Howie on a prominent shelf, pulling out my phone to snap a photo. “For evidence that we returned him.”
“And for social media?” April suggests. “The campaign hasn’t officially started yet, but we could start building the narrative?”
“We still have to sign the contracts.”
“I gave you my word.”
I nod, secretly giddy that she’s agreed to do this outrageous thing because what if … what if like my outlandish goal—or so I was told—to become an NHL player, April and I have a future together as more than friends?
“Whitaker will appreciate your enthusiasm.”
She grunts as if he’s not high on her list of favorite people at the moment. Good to know because he’s been slipping down mine as well.
I pull out my phone and I reach for her to come close. “Get in the shot.”
She positions herself next to Howie and makes a funny face. Snap. Then smiles. Snap. Looks at me. Snap. Howie. The dogs even get in on the action. I take several photos, and in every single one, she’s radiant. Happy. Beautiful.
We post the best one with the caption: Date night delivering a lost hockey gnome. #RelationshipGoals
“This is so weird,” April says as we head back outside.
“Which part?”
“All of it. Posting about us like we’re really dating. Creating ‘content.’ Staging photos.”
“Having fun?”
She looks up at me, and the streetlight catches the warm brown of her eyes. “Rule number eight. Yeah. I am having fun.”
“Me too.” I always do with April.
After letting the dogs run around what was the outdoor rink area last winter and is now a dried-up mud bog, we continue walking and are heading toward Main Street.
The dogs seem to know where we’re going before I do, because they all suddenly stop in front of the empty storefront between the Busy Bee and Once Upon a Romance.
The For Lease sign is still in the window.
April stops too, staring at the space with an expression I’ve seen a hundred times. Longing mixed with determination mixed with fear.
“The Barkery?” I say softly.
“Yeah.”
“Tell me about your latest pupcakes, any new ideas you have, anything.”
She glances at me, surprised. “I’ve told you about it before at length, in detail.”
“Tell me more. I like to hear about it.”
So she does. She talks about the latest blueberry oat recipe she’s been testing for the dog bakery that will be on one side and some idea for the training center on the other, about the color scheme and the fixtures and the specific brands of mixing bowls she wants. Her face lights up with each word.
April is the most passionate, driven, and nurturing person I know. She’s someone who sees potential in imperfect things—whether that’s a scared rescue dog or a forgetful hockey player who can’t remember where he put his keys.
I say, “Since you won’t let me bankroll the project, the campaign payment could cover the startup costs.”
“Maybe. If everything goes well.”
“It will go well.”
I turn to face her fully, and the dogs arrange themselves in a patient semicircle like they know something important is happening.
“April, you’re amazing with animals. You’re smart and organized and you have a business plan that’s so detailed it puts Badaszek’s playbook to shame. If anyone can make The Barkery work, it’s you.”
She looks down, and I’m pretty sure she’s blushing, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. “Thanks, Clark.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do. That’s why ...” She trails off.
“Why what?”
“Why I’m scared. What if I’m scared to try this fake dating thing? What if this messes everything up? What if we can’t go back to being friends? And I lose you and my Barkery dream?”
The question I’ve been avoiding occupies the space between us.
“It won’t, but then we follow rule seven,” I say quietly, smoothing a strand of her hair by her shoulder. “No matter what happens, we find our way back.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
She takes a deep breath. “In that case, we should sign the contracts before I lose my nerve.”
We walk back to my loft, and it feels simultaneously like our last moment as just friends and the beginning of something I’m afraid to name.
The dogs are tired now, their excitement from earlier replaced with the contented exhaustion of a good walk. They lap up water and settle in for the night.
I open the digital contracts Whitaker sent and print them out.
“Last chance to back out,” I say, pen in hand.
“Are you backing out?”
“Not a chance.”
She sits tall, resolute. “Then neither am I.”
We sign simultaneously.
“So,” April says, looking up as she sets down the pen. “We’re really doing this.”
“We’re really doing this.”
“Fake dating.”
“For charity.”
“For four weeks.”
“While following eight very specific rules.”
She starts laughing, and then I’m laughing. I scan the documents and then we move to my couch. All too soon, we’re both giggling like kids who just did something monumentally stupid and exhilarating.
April gasps between laughs. “What have we agreed to?”
“I have no idea.”
“This is going to be interesting.”
I turn to face her. “Probably.”
“We’re going to end up on one of those ‘Celebrity Relationship Fails’ lists.” She angles in my direction.
Our eyes drift together. We’re so close. It would be nothing to close the gap.
“Almost definitely.”
April gazes at the ceiling and then at me again. “I can’t believe I’m fake dating Clark Culpepper.”
“I can’t believe April Hansen agreed to fake date me.”
We’re still laughing when my phone buzzes with a text from Whitaker.
Whitaker: Contracts received and filed. Love at First Wag already has some things on the calendar. I’ll send the details. Whether it’s a photoshoot or a public appearance, try to make it look real.
April glimpses the text.
“As if that’s hard.”
“What do you mean?”
Too much. That means too much.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just that we’re friends. We already like each other. So it should be easy to fake.”
“Right. Easy.”
But the way she’s looking at me doesn’t feel easy. It feels complicated and thrilling and terrifying all at once.
It feels like I’m teetering on the edge of something I’ve been avoiding for ten years. It’s grown into a monolith and now what? I don’t know. It was one thing to daydream and pine. It’s another thing to actually fake date the woman I’m in love with.
April gathers her things to leave, and I walk her to the door. This is it. Our last interaction as “just friends” before we officially become a “fake dating couple.”
“See you soon?” she says.
“See you soon.” This is our way of saying goodbye without saying goodbye. I can’t remember which one of us started it, but I like to think it’s a promise to see each other again rather than the finality of farewell.
She’s halfway out the door when she turns back. “Clark?”
“Yeah?” I get to my feet and take a step toward her.
“Thanks for dinner and for believing in The Barkery.”
“Anytime.”
Then she’s gone. I’ve insisted on walking her to her car at night, but she refuses, so I just stand there. She’ll text me when she’s home safely. That’s our agreement.
Moose comes over and headbutts my leg.
“I know, buddy. I’m in trouble.”
Because rule six says no falling in love.
But I’m pretty sure I broke that rule about a decade ago.