Chapter 14
APRIL
A few hours later, after the conclusion of the adoption event, Clark, the pack, and I walk back to the car, loaded down with Love at First Wag merchandise and having committed to three more public appearances. He holds my hand, then he winks.
Is it an acknowledgment of our fake little secret? Like we just left the history classroom and fibbed about our progress on our Magna Carta report? Yes, that happened and I didn’t feel good about lying. I don’t now either.
Clark has to travel to a game tonight, so he drops me off at home. But instead of leaving me at the curb, he walks me to my studio and lingers at the door.
He lets out a long breath. “We did it.”
“First public appearance as a fake couple done and dusted.” As I playfully brush my hands together, he looks at them—probably realizing that without the cameras, he doesn’t have to touch them. Yes, they’re often clammy. I can’t help it!
Clark says, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Easter.
My parents are doing their usual over-the-top thing in Oregon.
They’ve been asking about when you’re going to visit again for months and I thought .
..” He straightens the brim of his baseball hat and his hair flips temptingly from under it. “Would you want to come with me?”
His parents have been asking about me for months?
He clears his throat. “I mean, it would help sell the whole dating thing, and my mom would be thrilled.”
The buffalo shake their pom poms. Where on earth did they get those?
I don’t have plans and adore the Culpepper crew. “That would be really nice. I’d love to.”
Relief washes across his features. “Good. I’ll get us flights.”
We stand there for a moment, and I’m suddenly very aware of how close we are. How easy it would be to just lean forward and “practice” kissing again.
Clark clears his throat and steps back slightly. “I should go. Time to get on the road.”
“Right. Good luck at the game.”
“Thanks.” He hesitates, then leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. His lips linger for just a second—warm and soft and welcome. “See you soon, April.”
Then he’s gone, jogging down the stairs, and I’m left standing in my doorway, all tingles.
But wait. Was that for practice, too? Or does he kiss all his fake girlfriends goodbye?
As I watch the Jeep pull away through the window in the stairwell, I instantly pick apart the interview.
I can’t help but wonder if something shifted.
When I watch it later that night, I focus on the way he looked at me.
He even used the word love. He loves everything about me?
That must’ve been part of the script. He has media training.
Whitaker probably gave him tips and prepared him for the questions Abigail was going to ask.
I realize now that Whitaker probably prompted him to perform the practice kiss, so there were no public slip-ups. The buffalo drop their pom poms and walk off the field, defeated.
Inside my apartment, I lean against the couch cushion when my phone rings. The buffalo take a victory lap, thinking it’s Clark. Nope. Just my sister.
“April! Finally, you pick up. I’ve been trying to reach you all week.”
“Sorry, Elise. Things have been crazy.”
“I saw.” Her tone is loaded with meaning. “You and Clark Culpepper? The kiss cam? The social media posts? When were you going to tell me you’re officially dating? I mean, it took you long enough. But still. At last!” She makes a sound like angels chorusing.
Do I lie to my sister, or do I tell her the truth?
The girls know. Clark’s teammates probably suspect. But Elise is family.
“It’s um, a thing,” I hedge.
“A thing? How? April, you’ve been in love with that man since high school. This is the opposite of a thing. This is true love reaching its logical end!”
I don’t like the sound of end because this “thing” does have an expiration date.
“It’s not—we’re not—” I take a deep breath. Even though I’m alone, I whisper, “Can you keep a secret?”
“I’m an attorney. It’s literally my job.”
“Except when I broke Mom’s vase.”
“She coaxed me with that fancy chocolate of hers that she never shared.”
I grunt because I probably would’ve caved too. “We’re fake dating. For a charity campaign. It’s not real.”
Elise is nerve-rackingly quiet until she says, “April Sarah Hansen, are you completely out of your mind?”
“Probably.”
“You’re fake-dating the man you’re actually in love with?”
“When you say it like that—”
“That’s the only way to say it! This is either a great idea or the worst. As your official legal counsel, I’m leaning toward the latter.”
“I don’t need legal counsel, but thanks for the vote of confidence.” Sarcasm is one of our primary modes of communication.
Elise sighs. “Look, I love you. You’re my little sister and I want you to be happy. But April, you can’t fake your way into a real relationship.”
“I know that.” My voice sounds regrettably puny.
“Do you? Because it sounds like you’re hoping that if you pretend long enough, it’ll become real.”
“I’m not—” Am I? “I’m doing this for The Barkery. The money from the campaign is going to help a ton.”
“And if you lose Clark in the process … you know, if things don’t go to plan?”
“We have rules. We’re going to be fine.”
“Famous last words,” Elise mutters. “But okay. If you’re determined to do this, at least let me give you some advice.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope. First: Don’t change yourself to be what you think he wants. Clark already likes you exactly as you are—he’s just too dumb to realize it.”
I laugh despite myself.
“Second: Watch for the signs. If he’s touching you more than necessary, looking at you differently, and finding excuses to be near you—those are clues.”
“Clues that I’d probably be reading too much into.” As if I don’t already pick apart every nuance of our interactions.
“Or clues that the fake dating is working.” She pauses. “Third: Don’t sacrifice your dream for him. If this campaign helps you get The Barkery, that’s amazing. But don’t lose sight of that in the process.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Fourth: next time he asks if you want to drive his Maserati—I still can’t believe you declined, those things cut through the road like butter—say yes.”
I won’t because I know that once I get behind the wheel, I won’t want to stop.
Elise says, “One more thing. Be careful with your heart. It’s the only one you’ve got.” She says a bit more about witnessing the ugliness of broken hearts in divorce cases and the damage that follows.
The next morning, I get an email from Clark with a schedule passed along by Whitaker.
Monday: Social media content day
Wednesday: Teddy Bear Toss event at the Ice Palace
Friday: Dinner date at Spaglietti’s (public appearance)
Next Sunday: Easter with Clark’s family
Instead of texting him back, I panic and call.
In one breath, I say, “We have a dinner date. At Spaglietti’s. In public. Like a real date. At a restaurant. Where people will see us.”
“That’s generally how public appearances work.”
“I know, but—” I can’t finish the sentence.
Because what I want to say is that sitting across from him at a romantic restaurant is different from hanging out with dogs at an adoption event.
It’s going to be torture. I’m going to have to pretend this is fake when everything in me wants it to be real.
“Oh, and hello to you, too. I’m in Reno, by the way.”
“I know. Good luck at the game later.”
“Tell the Bacon Boys and Purdy that I love them.”
“I will,” but there is a tremor in my voice.
“It’ll be fine,” Clark says, like he can read my mind. “We’ll eat some pasta, smile for some photos, and call it a night. No big deal.”
“Right. No big deal.”
But it is a big deal. Because every event, every touch, every moment we spend together is making it harder to remember this isn’t real.
“Also, I invited you to Easter at my parents’ house. That’s on the schedule too.”
“I saw.”
“You don’t have to come if it’s too much,” Clark says as if sensing my overwhelm.
“I want to come.” Truly.
“Good. My parents would be very upset if you didn’t,” he says, relieved.
“Plus, I cannot miss out on hearing your siblings spill embarrassing stories about you or your mom’s bacon spinach dip surrounded by the pull apart bunny shaped bread.”
I can imagine him smiling when I begged him to recreate it for me, but his mother wouldn’t give up the recipe, claiming she had included a secret ingredient. “But, uh, what should we tell them about us?” he asks as if it’s up to me.
I try to release a steady breath even though that’s not quite how I feel. “The truth.”
“That you’re my girlfriend—fake girlfriend,” he corrects quickly. “My mom asks about you all the time.”
“She does?”
“Yeah. She thinks you’re—” He stops. “Never mind.”
“She thinks I’m what?”
“She thinks you’re good for me. That I’m happier when you’re around.”
The buffalo turn in excited circles. “Oh.”
“So. Easter. You’ll still come?”
“Of course.”
“Although fair warning, my mom has a tendency to meddle and if she knows it’s not real, she might try to make it real.”
“Clark Culpepper, is that a threat?”
“Maybe?”
At least, I think that’s what he says. There’s shouting in the background. Doors opening and closing. Someone hollers at him to get his butt in gear.
“Gotta go.”
“Go win,” I say.
“Already did,” he says.
The call ends as I tell myself he’s just showing team spirit and the comment about already winning has nothing to do with us. Duh.
My email pings—I shut off all other social media notifications because they’ve been hitting like a hailstorm.
But when I open the app, I’ve received a notice from the loan officer at the bank who is reviewing my application for the Barkery.
She needs proof of stable income for the next month.
Proof that I can sustain the business during startup.
The Love at First Wag payment would cover that.
But only if the campaign is successful. Only if Clark and I can convince everyone we’re really in love.
No pressure or anything.