Chapter 3 #2
“He really is,” I say, staring directly into the abyss of my poor life choices. “As I mentioned, we’re even planning a romantic getaway. Just the two of us. Wine country. All the bells and whistles—spa robes, vineyard views, maybe even a sunrise yoga session.”
Soren—still listening—shakes his head slowly. A slow, devastating shake. Like I just told him, I was investing in crypto and expected a tax write-off.
I take a long sip of my wine and refuse to meet his eyes. This isn’t the time to judge me. Maybe I should take my mother off speaker, but that means holding the phone—I lost my earbuds. I’m already using my hands. One is for my wine, and the other one is to take notes so I keep up with my lies.
“Oh, Napa,” Mom sighs dreamily. “You always said you wanted to take a cooking class there.”
No, I never say Napa, but who am I to correct her?
“I know,” I say, surprisingly proud of the lie I’ve built. “It’s like my vision board came to life and handed me a boyfriend with artisanal jam.”
As she continues fantasizing aloud about lavender fields and homemade gnocchi, I start a to-do list if Chad doesn’t follow through:
Buy robe for fake spa trip.
Take a staged selfie with a glass of wine—find a good Napa vineyard background.
I have to sell this story with good prompts. I take a picture in Aspen, and they’ll know I’m lying.
Google “Chad aesthetic boyfriend photography ideas”. Will Chad agree to have a little makeover?
Photoshop dog into background?
As I’m typing book imaginary cooking class, I look up, finding Soren leaning closer to the fence. Arms crossed. Head tilted. Judgy, gorgeous, insufferable.
He’s not even pretending to look away anymore. His biceps are flexed in that “accidentally intimidating” kind of way, and his jaw could cut a baguette. He shifts his weight slightly, like even his stance is judging me. I press mute on the phone after asking Mom to hold for a second.
“Do you mind?” I snap, waving it in the air like a white flag. “Some of us are curating a digital romance for the sake of maternal approval.”
Soren lifts his water bottle in a slow, mocking salute. “Don’t let me interrupt the performance.”
“It’s not a performance,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes. “It’s . . . branding. Didn’t you hear? I’m supposed to post more. Be ‘engaging.’ Build authenticity. Apparently, curated delusion is good for parental analytics.”
“At what point,” he asks, voice dry as vintage cabernet, “are you going to realize that Chad looks nothing like whoever you just described to your mother?”
I blink. “You don’t know that. He might. In the right lighting. After a haircut. And maybe a serum treatment.”
He tilts his head and gives me that look—the look. The one that says I know you’re unraveling, but I’m going to let you because it’s wildly entertaining.
“You know when was the last time my parents came to visit me?” I ask, crossing my arms.
He shakes his head. “Actually, I’ve never seen your parents around.”
“Exactly. Never. Not once since I moved out of Winterberry Cove. They . . . no, wait, I’m wrong. After graduation, they have never visited me.” I toss my hands up in the air. “They only know I’m alive through calls, passive-aggressive group texts, and Aunt Nell’s updates from her spy ring.”
His brows lift. “So your plan is . . . what? Rebrand Chad before presenting him to the parental tribunal?”
“By the time I take him to Winterberry Cove,” I say, reaching for my wine glass, “he’s going to look . . . different.”
“You’re changing him?” Soren’s voice is a cocktail of amusement and concern.
“I’m not changing him,” I reply defensively. “I’m giving him . . . wardrobe direction. Just a few pieces. A Henley. A well-fitted flannel. Maybe one of those jackets that say, ‘I can chop firewood and understand emotional nuance.’”
His mouth twitches. “So, costume design. Got it.”
“This is just prep,” I insist. “In case things go well.”
He takes a step closer, eyes narrowing just enough to make my heart hiccup. “You do realize this is going to bite you in the ass, right?”
I lift a brow, swallowing around a grin. “You sound oddly invested in the fate of my ass. Why are you still here?”
His gaze flicks lower for half a second—just long enough—before he catches himself. The corner of his mouth lifts—slow, smug, and clearly enjoying this.
“Because watching you juggle this delusion is the most entertainment I’ve had in weeks.” He leans in, voice a notch deeper. “And if it does bite you in the ass . . . don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
My throat dries. My brain short-circuits.
He steps back, jaw flexing once like he’s reeling it all back in.
“You’re wrong,” I argue.
And then he growls.
Not a full-on animal growl—more like a frustrated, under-his-breath, ugh, as if the conversation derailed somewhere between sarcasm and something else.
Something uncomfortably hot.
I blink, and that’s when he hands me a box of chocolate. “Here, this will go well with your wine and your delusions.” He turns and stalks off without another word.
I stare after him, then at the box, and I have only one thought running laps in my head: I really need to stop drinking wine while emotionally improvising and flirting with the human equivalent of a brooding red flag wrapped in charm.
Do I want to yell something like, “It won’t bite me in the ass. You’ll see, this will be great.”
Yes, but I don’t. I’ll let him eat his words because . . . did he bring me chocolates?
Why?
Instead of thinking about my neighbor, I go back to my call. Mom needs a little more convincing that I’m not a trainwreck and that Chad is the best thing that’s happened to me since I graduated summa cum laude from undergrad. He’ll see . . .
In the meantime, I go back to my call. At least I have chocolate to make this more bearable, and maybe with a mouthful, I will stop making up so much shit, or I might get in trouble.
Nah, I’m too good at this.