Chapter 16 Clark
CLARK
My dinner date with April on Friday comes at me like a flaming Zamboni. Somehow creeping along yet on fire.
I pick her up and when she opens her apartment door, I drool a little.
April, who generally lives in jeans and hoodies, is wearing a dress. It’s soft purple—lavender, like my favorite blouse of hers—and it clings to her figure in ways that make me think Wow.
The world has been missing out. Never mind. I don’t want her to share any of what I see with anyone, so better to keep her hidden under my oversized hoodies. Yes, mine. Yes, I’m being possessive. This is April, we’re talking about.
Her curls are down, tumbling over her shoulders. She’s wearing makeup, but not too much. Just enough to make her eyes look warmer, her lips look even more kissable.
Like a goaltender blocking a puck, I tell myself to stop thinking about her lips.
“Is this okay?” she asks, doing a little turn. “Too much? Not enough? I can change—”
“You are perfect,” I say with maximum confidence. “I mean, it’s perfect. The dress. You look ... really nice.”
“Nice?”
“Pretty. Beautiful. You look beautiful,” I say, thoughts still stunned as I come back to the truth.
Her cheeks flush pink. “Oh. Thanks. You look good, too.”
I glance at my button-down and dress pants. Standard date attire. Nothing special. But the way she’s looking at me makes me feel like I just won the game in overtime.
“Shall we?” I offer my arm.
She loops hers through mine, and we head down to where my Maserati is parked.
Because if we’re doing a public date, we might as well do it right.
Plus, I’ve noticed that although she likes the Jeep, she wears a little smirk when we’re in my sports car.
I’d like to believe she’s thinking Eat your heart out, Posh!
The drive to Spaglietti’s in Cobbiton isn’t long, and I spend every second acutely aware of April sitting next to me. The way she fidgets with her purse strap. The soft scent of her lilac perfume filling the car. How I could put my hand on her knee if I stretched my arm a bit.
She lets out a stilted breath as if this is a few notches higher on the fake dating meter than our appearance at the adoption event.
“Remember,” I say as we pull into the parking lot, “just be yourself.”
“Be myself. Got it.” She takes a deep breath. “We can do this.”
“We absolutely can.”
Spaglietti’s is packed, as expected for a Friday night. The hostess leads us to a corner table with a perfect view of the restaurant and, more importantly, a perfect view for everyone to see us.
There’s already a photographer set up discreetly near the bar.
“This is surreal,” April whispers as we slide into the booth.
“Just focus on me. Pretend they’re not here.”
“Hard to do when there’s a camera pointed at us.”
I smirk. “Then let’s give them something to photograph.”
Her eyebrows jolt.
I reach across the table and take her hand. Her fingers are clammy, nervous. I rub my thumb across her knuckles, trying to calm her.
“Better?” I ask.
“Getting there.”
The waiter appears with menus and water. We order without really looking—spaghetti and meatballs for both of us, because that’s what we get when we come here under ordinary circumstances of the “just friends” variety.
Once we’re alone again, she whispers, “How do we do the fake dinner date in public?”
“I guess we just ... talk? Like we normally do?”
“But more couple-y?”
“Is couple-y a word?”
She laughs. I laugh. We’re both laughing, and just like that, the tension eases. This is us. This is what we do. We make each other laugh.
The food arrives faster than expected and we’re faced with a giant plate of spaghetti to share—family style.
“This will require a doggy bag,” April observes after we say the blessing.
“Old school Italian-American portions.”
“I will be taking the dogs on an extra-long walk tomorrow.”
I’m about to respond when April twirls her fork in the spaghetti, lifts it to her mouth, and somehow—impossibly—the same strand I’m eating ends up between us.
We both freeze.
The strand connects us like a bridge between friends and more. Suddenly, all I can think about is the Lady and the Tramp scene where the dogs kind of kiss over a shared bowl of noodles.
It’s April’s favorite movie. Her eyes widen. She must be thinking it too.
Do we go for it? We’re supposed to be a couple. This is prime couple content. The photographer is definitely getting this shot.
But it’s also terrifying, yet something I want more than the delicious meal.
I lean forward slightly. April does too. The strand grows shorter between us.
Closer.
Closer still.
Our lips are mere inches apart when someone interrupts.
“Oh my gosh, is that Clark Culpepper?!”
We both jerk back as Sophia Snodgrass-Schuster appears at our table, phone already out, smile greedy and nosy and very small town.
“And April! How sweet. Although ...” She taps her chin with one perfectly manicured finger. “Didn’t someone say you two were siblings? I could’ve sworn I saw that somewhere.”
My jaw tightens. This is exactly the kind of rumor Sophia loves to spread. According to Grady and some of the other guys, she’s been the queen bee of Cobbiton gossip since high school, and apparently, marriage and motherhood haven’t mellowed her appetite to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong.
“We’re not siblings,” I say firmly.
“Oh, I see that now. But you can understand the confusion, right? You’re always together. He’s always carrying your things. Standing so close ...” She’s fishing for information.
April tenses beside me.
“That’s because she’s my girlfriend,” I say, louder than necessary. Loud enough that occupants of several of the nearby tables turn to look. “April is my girlfriend. Not my sister. Not my friend. My girlfriend.”
The word echoes through the restaurant.
Sophia’s smile sharpens. “How unexpected. And when did this happen?”
“It’s been on and off,” April supplies, her voice steadier than I expect.
“But now very much on,” I add.
“How romantic.” Sophia doesn’t sound like she believes us.
“It was until you interrupted,” I mutter.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your date. I’m sure the Corn Husker group will be very interested to hear about this.” She flounces away, already typing on her phone.
“The Corn Husker group?” I ask.
“It’s a private online chat group for Cobbiton residents. Leah is the moderator and tries to keep the gossip in check.”
“Smart.”
April stares at her plate. “But this is going to be all over town by morning.”
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah. Let them talk. Let everyone know you’re my girlfriend.” I catch myself. “Fake girlfriend.”
“Right. Fake.”
But it sounds all wrong.
We finish dinner in relative peace, though I’m hyper-aware of people watching us. When the check comes, I pay despite April’s protest about splitting it.
“It’s a date,” I say. “I’m paying.”
“A fake date,” she whispers.
“Still, it’s a date.”
We then discuss the cost of her airplane ticket to visit my family and I insist she save her money for the Barkery. She only relents when I agree that she can pay me back by supplying the dogs with more treats.
As we’re leaving, I help her with her coat—another thing I sometimes do, but now it feels loaded with meaning. My hands linger on her shoulders perhaps a second too long because she glances back at me, her dimple showing.
However, in the car, April is quiet.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah, but that was intense.”
“Is Sophia ever not intense?”
She tilts her head in thought. “Fair point. Do you think people believed us?”
I know she wants to sell this, so she gets the payment from Love at First Wag. She’ll be able to use those funds for the Barkery, but I wish she were asking a different question.
“I think after my declaration, they’d have to be pretty skeptical not to.”
She laughs softly. “True. You went all alpha male territorial for a minute there.”
“Did I?” I hadn’t meant to. But hearing Sophia imply April was my sister, seeing that accusatory, doubting gleam in her eye—something in me snapped. “Sorry if it was too much.”
“It wasn’t. It was actually kind of ...” She trails off.
“Kind of what?”
“Never mind.”
I nudge her with my elbow.
“Sweet, okay? It was sweet that you defended us like that.”
Of course, if only she knew how much I meant it. We’re quiet as I merge onto the highway, then I say, “The next big event is Easter weekend.”
“At your family’s house in Oregon.”
“We leave Saturday morning. Is that still good?”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“They’re going to love having you there. My mom is already planning an Easter egg hunt for everyone—and the dogs. She thought you’d like that.” From what I’ve gleaned, April’s family weren’t big into celebrating holidays or birthdays.
“It’s epic, but I hope she doesn’t go out of her way on my account.”
“It’s impossible to tell my mom not to fuss over people she cares about.”
April smiles in the dim, crescent moon night. I pull up outside her apartment and put the car in park.
“Thank you for dinner and everything,” April says.
I nod and nod and nod, not wanting to tell her, See you soon. Instead, I say, “When we get to Oregon, my family’s going to treat you like you’re a Culpepper. Because to us, you are. You always have been.”
Her eyes look shiny again. She leans over and kisses my square jaw. My pulse trips.
Clearing my throat, I add, “I just wanted you to know that. In case things feel overwhelming or your parents call again or whatever. You belong with us. With me.”
“Fake me,” she whispers.
I give a slight shake of my head at the same time headlights from a passing truck sweep through the car. But I’m starting to think there’s nothing fake about it at all.