6. Caius
CAIUS
The bolt shears off in my hand.
"Son of a—" I drop the wrench, flexing my fingers. That's what I get for trying to muscle through a seized engine mount like it personally offended me.
Which it didn't. But Hallie Miller's chapstick sure as hell did.
Or rather, the fact that I can still taste it twelve hours later. Cherry. Who even wears cherry chapstick anymore? Apparently, librarians who hum Biggie Smalls while shelving romance novels and kiss like they've got something to prove.
I grab a clean rag, wiping grease off my knuckles harder than necessary. The garage is empty this early—Sunday mornings are mine alone, which is usually exactly how I like it. Quiet. Controlled. No complications.
No Hallie Miller sprawled underneath me on my couch, making those sounds that are definitely going to haunt me for the rest of my natural life.
"Get it together, O'Connor," I mutter, tossing the rag aside. We set ground rules. Eventually. After the third—or was it fourth?—time we came up for air. No crossing certain lines. No letting Ryan find out. No catching feelings.
That last one might already be a lost cause, but I'm working on denial as a valid coping mechanism.
My phone dings on the workbench. I almost ignore it, but then I see her name.
Hallie: Engagement party tonight. Pick me up at 6?
Hallie: Also I think we broke your couch.
I bark out a laugh despite myself, typing back.
Me: Couch is fine. Unlike my self-control.
Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. Finally:
Hallie: We established ground rules.
Me: After we violated all of them.
Hallie: Practice makes perfect?
I watch my phone, at the innocent little question mark that feels anything but innocent, and scrub a hand over my face. This woman is going to destroy me. Absolutely wreck me. And I'm going to let her.
Me: See you at 6, Hal.
I pocket my phone and get back to work, but the bolt isn't the only thing that's torqued too tight.
The Riverside Inn looks like someone's Pinterest board threw up all over it. String lights, mason jars, a banner that says "She Said Yes!" in letters so aggressively cursive they're practically illegible.
I tug at my collar. I own exactly two button-down shirts, and one of them is currently covered in transmission fluid, so here I am in navy blue, feeling like an imposter at someone else's party.
Then Hallie's front door opens, and every coherent thought evacuates my brain.
She's wearing a dress. A green dress that hugs every curve I spent last night mapping with my hands, and her hair is down for once, falling in waves past her shoulders. She's ditched the glasses for contacts, and when she smiles at me, uncertain and hopeful, I forget how to breathe.
"Too much?" She touches her hair, self-conscious, fingers trailing through the waves like she might pull it all back into the safe, familiar bun she hides behind at the library.
"You look..." The words catch in my mouth like stripped threads, and I have to clear it twice before I can continue.
My hands flex at my sides, wanting to reach for her, to pull her close and tell her exactly how good she looks, how she always looks good, even in her cardigan-and-messy-bun uniform, but tonight she's absolutely devastating.
"You're going to give Kyle a stroke when he sees you. "
"That's the plan." But she's biting her lip, and I can read the nervousness in the set of her shoulders. She's bracing herself, armoring up for battle.
I close the gap, standing at the base of her porch steps, and hold out my hand to her, palm up, an invitation and a promise all at once. "Come here."
She takes it, lets me pull her close, and I catch the scent of whatever perfume she's wearing. Something floral and sweet that makes me want to bury my face in her neck and forget the rest of the world exists.
"We got this," I tell her quietly. "You and me. He doesn't get to make you feel small."
"I know." She smooths down my collar, her fingers lingering on me. "Thank you. For doing this."
For a second, I almost tell her the truth. That this stopped being fake the moment she walked into my shop three days ago and agreed to this insane plan. That I've been half in love with her since we were kids and too stupid to realize it until now.
But then Ryan's truck rumbles up the street, pulling to a stop at the curb across from us, and whatever confession was building dissolves like sugar in water. The engine cuts, and I hear car doors slamming, her brother and whoever else he brought along.
The moment slips through my fingers like sand, gone before I can grab hold of it.
"Showtime," Hallie whispers, her voice barely audible, and I feel her square her shoulders against me, feel the way she's shifting gears, putting on her game face.
The vulnerable girl who was just smoothing down my collar is tucking herself away, and the brave woman who's about to walk into enemy territory is taking her place.
I lace my fingers through hers and lead her to my truck, opening her door because my Ma raised me right, even if she raised me poor. Hallie slides in, and I catch a flash of thigh that nearly kills me on the spot.
Ground rules, I remind myself firmly as I round the truck to the driver's side. We have ground rules for this whole fake dating arrangement, clear boundaries we both agreed to.
They're just... flexible, apparently. Subject to interpretation. Open to negotiation when her hand's in mine and her body's pressed against the shop wall and my brain's short-circuiting from the feel of her.
I slide behind the wheel and grip it harder than necessary, like maybe if I hold on tight enough, I can get my head back in the game.
The party is already in full swing by the time we arrive. The engagement couple—Hallie's sister Madison and her fiancé Josh—are holding court near the dessert table, radiating that nauseating happiness that comes from never having had a single doubt about each other.
Must be nice to be so fucking certain about another person. To not spend every waking moment convincing yourself that wanting something means you don't deserve it.
"There's Kyle." Hallie's grip on my hand tightens, her fingers suddenly vice-like around mine. Her voice has gone small and tight, like she's trying to make herself smaller just by speaking. "By the bar. Don't look."
Naturally, I look.
Can't help myself. Need to size up the competition, even if this whole thing is supposed to be fake. Even if the only person I'm competing against is my own goddamn sense of loyalty to her family.
He's exactly what I expected: khakis and a blazer that probably cost more than my truck payment, hair gelled within an inch of its life, holding a craft beer like it's a prop. Tall. Conventionally handsome in that bland, forgettable way.
And he's staring at Hallie like he just realized what he gave up, like some moron who traded in a classic Mustang for a midlife-crisis sports car and only now understands he made the worst deal of his life.
His expression is a mix of regret and longing, his eyes tracking her movements make my jaw clench.
He's leaning against the bar like he needs the support, that overpriced craft beer forgotten in his hand, and there's something almost pathetic about the way he's just...
staring. Like she's a dream he let slip through his fingers and he's only just waking up.
Good. Let him stare. Let him marinate in that regret.
Let him see exactly what he walked away from, what he was too blind or too stupid to appreciate when he had the chance.
"Breathe," I murmur against Hallie's ear, my hand settling on her lower back. "Remember, you're here with me. He's irrelevant."
"Right. Irrelevant." But her voice shakes, just a little.
Madison spots us and squeals, literally squeals, rushing over in a cloud of tulle and champagne fumes. "Hallie! Oh my god, you look amazing! And Caius, you clean up nice!"
"Thanks, Em." I smile because Madison's always been sweet, even if her taste in wedding themes is questionable. "Congrats on the engagement."
"Thank you!" She grabs Hallie's hand, inspecting our interlaced fingers with undisguised glee. "And oh my GOD, Mom told me you two were together now, but I didn't believe her because Hallie, you've had a crush on him since forever, and I thought there was no way you'd actually?—"
"Madison." Hallie's face flushes a deep, mortified crimson, the kind of red that starts at her collarbone and creeps up her neck in blotchy patches.
Her free hand comes up like she's trying to physically stop the words from spilling out of Madison's mouth.
"Maybe we don't need to take a trip down memory lane right this second?—"
"Since forever?" I glance down at Hallie, eyebrows raised, unable to keep the grin off my face even as I try to look casual about it. My thumb traces an idle circle on her hip, feeling the way she's gone rigid beside me.
She refuses to meet my eyes, suddenly fascinated by the rhinestone detailing on Madison's dress. "Madison exaggerates. You know how she is."
"I absolutely do not!" Madison protests, her voice pitching higher with indignation. She's swaying slightly on her heels, and I'm pretty sure this isn't her first glass of champagne. "Remember when you were seventeen and you made me swear on my life that I wouldn't tell anyone about?—"
"Madison," Hallie cuts her off, her voice sharp with warning despite the smile plastered on her face. "I will tell Josh about your Backstreet Boys phase. In graphic detail. With photographic evidence."
Madison gasps, affronted, but Josh calls her name from across the room, and she flounces off with a pointed "We're talking about this later."
I wait until she's out of earshot. "A crush, huh?"
"Shut up." Hallie finally looks at me, cheeks still pink. "You saw the photo at your mom's house. You already knew."
"There's a difference between a photo and hearing it confirmed." I tug her closer, dropping my voice. "Since forever is a long time, Hal."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."