Faking All the Way

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Kat

The plane hits another pocket of turbulence, and my stomach lurches like I’m on the world’s worst roller coaster.

You can do this, I remind myself, white-knuckling the armrests. It’s just a tube of metal hurtling through the sky at thirty thousand feet. Totally normal.

I breathe on a slow count—in through the nose, out through the mouth, remembering the instructions from the meditation app I downloaded and used exactly twice.

It takes forever, but eventually my death grip on the armrests loosens.

That is, until we hit another patch of bumpy air, and then I’m back to praying to whatever aviation gods might be listening.

The elderly woman beside me hasn’t even glanced up from her knitting. Her silver needles click in a steady rhythm, creating what looks like an intricate pattern in festive red and green. Probably a Christmas sweater for some lucky grandkid.

I should be that calm. I want to be that calm. Instead, I’m having a full-body panic attack over what the pilot blandly called “a little chop.”

The seatback screen flickers with ESPN highlights, which I’d normally scroll past without a second thought. But desperate times call for desperate distractions, and right now I’ll take anything that doesn’t involve looking out the window at the ground far, far below.

The ESPN story switches to footage of a hockey game, showing players gliding across the ice with a fluid grace that makes my clumsy ass deeply jealous. I fumble for the complimentary headphones and plug into the audio, letting the announcer’s smooth baritone fill my ears.

“—the future remains uncertain for Asher Vaughn after the Philadelphia Strikers chose not to renew his contract,” the ESPN anchor says in a practiced tone. “The Strikers have been performing well this season—”

I recognize the name of my current city’s hockey team, letting the words flow over me without really processing them.

The camera cuts to game footage of Asher Vaughn, and even on the airplane’s small screen, it’s obvious this man is the kind of attractive that should come with a warning label.

He has a sharp jawline, full lips, dark hair that curls just enough at the ends to make you want to run your fingers through it, and a strong bone structure that makes him look a bit rugged.

When he moves across the ice, it’s like watching a predator in his natural habitat, all effortless grace and spring-loaded power. The kind of man who probably has to beat women off with a hockey stick.

The segment shifts to talking heads dissecting Asher Vaughn’s injury stats and uncertain future since his contract wasn’t renewed by the Strikers.

I find myself getting invested in this stranger’s career drama, my anxiety temporarily forgotten as I get sucked into the narrative.

Apparently his shoulder has healed after the injury he suffered during a game, but his performance hasn’t quite bounced back to its former level.

Now he’s a free agent currently looking for a new team.

A twinge of sympathy tugs at my chest. I guess everyone is fighting invisible battles, even ridiculously attractive professional athletes who look like they have the world by the tail.

The sports report cuts to commercial just as the pilot’s voice crackles through the cabin speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our descent into Maplewood Airport. Please return your seat backs to their upright position—”

Thank god.

Twenty more minutes and I’ll be back on blessed, stable ground, ready to face a different kind of turbulence: explaining my life choices to a family who still thinks my art career is an elaborate phase I’ll eventually outgrow.

No matter how many projects I illustrate or how many clients sing my praises, I’ll always be the Sanders daughter who chose “finger painting” over something sensible like accounting. Most of my bills get paid, and I only eat ramen by choice now, but somehow that never seems to count.

The landing is fairly smooth, but that doesn’t stop me from leaving fingernail marks in the armrests. As soon as we’re given the okay by the flight attendants, I hop up and join the line of people filing off the plane.

The Maplewood Regional Airport is doing its absolute best with holiday decorations, even though there are only six gates and the building itself hasn’t been updated since at least the eighties.

Still, someone’s gone all out with the Christmas spirit.

Modest wreaths hang from the handful of windows, silver tinsel catches what natural light filters through, and “Silent Night” plays softly from speakers that have definitely seen better decades.

The small food counter near baggage claim makes my stomach growl with embarrassing volume. When did I last eat? Those stale airplane pretzels definitely don’t count as a meal, and I was too nervous to be hungry before the flight.

My suitcase, an ancient purple thing with a strip of duct tape covering up a crack in the side, makes its grand appearance on the carousel.

I should probably replace it, but I’m not exactly swimming in cash these days.

Besides, there’s something comforting about its familiarity, and it’s easy to spot in a sea of boring black luggage.

“Kat? Oh my god, is that really you?”

The voice stops me cold as I wrestle my bag off the luggage carousel, my eyes going wide with recognition. No. No, no, no. Not him. Not here. Not now.

Daniel.

My chest tightens with that special cocktail of mortification that only comes from encountering someone who’s seen you ugly-cry while breaking up with you. Coming home for Christmas is supposed to be warm and comforting, not a masterclass in public humiliation.

Of course my ex-boyfriend is here. Because apparently my karma is that bad.

“Daniel!” I paste on what I hope passes for a casual smile instead of the grimace it probably is as I turn to face my ex. “What a surprise! What brings you to the airport?”

He looks exactly the same—annoyingly so.

His brown hair styled with surgical precision, those hazel eyes that always seemed to be cataloguing everyone’s flaws, wearing that navy peacoat he bought because some men’s magazine told him it would make him look sophisticated.

His cologne hits me like a memory I’d rather forget, dragging me back to his overly decorated apartment two years ago where he calmly explained that while he still cared about me, I’d never be “marriage material.”

“Picking up my fiancée.” He says it casually, but I don’t miss its significance of his unspoken words. Look how quickly I replaced you with someone better.

The universe really does have a sick sense of humor.

“Maya, meet Kat.” A woman materializes beside him like she’s been summoned from the pages of a lifestyle magazine. She’s everything I used to think I should be—polished and poised, wearing the kind of structured wool coat that never shows wrinkles or pet hair. “We dated a while back.”

Maya extends a manicured hand, her smile bright and practiced. Her engagement ring catches the fluorescent lights, glinting brightly. “The artist! Daniel’s told me about you.”

“Illustrator, actually.” I shake her hand, smiling weakly. “But close enough.”

“Right, your little drawings.” Daniel’s tone carries that familiar condescension that used to make me question every life choice I’d ever made. “Still pursuing that hobby?”

My smile slips a bit, but I keep my voice level. “I am. Just wrapped a series for a children’s book about managing anxiety. The publisher thinks it has real commercial potential.”

It’s true, and I’m damn proud of it. Stripey the Zebra is going to help kids understand that anxious feelings are normal and manageable. That matters more than Daniel’s narrow definition of success ever will.

“How wonderfully… brave.” Maya’s tone is harder to read than Daniel’s obvious dismissal. “Following your passion despite the financial uncertainty. I could never. I need stability, you know? Predictable income, clear career trajectory.”

“We all have different priorities,” I say diplomatically, channeling every customer service skill I’ve ever learned.

“So what about you?” Daniel asks, and I brace myself for the question that turns every family gathering into a special circle of hell. “Are you seeing anyone special?”

The way he asks it—like he already knows the answer and is doing me a favor by pretending to care—makes my spine snap straight.

I’m not the helpless, flighty artist he makes me out to be.

I’ve grown. I’ve sold three art pieces in the past year.

I have a savings account and an emergency fund, dammit.

“Actually, yes.” The lie rolls off my tongue before I can stop to think about it. “I’m seeing someone wonderful.”

Daniel’s eyebrows climb toward his perfectly styled hairline. “Really? Anyone I’d know?”

My brain scrambles for a name—something believable but not easily verified. Of course, all I can think of are the ridiculous character names from my latest project designing characters for a mural at a Philadelphia school. Benny the Bear and Marvin the Manatee are definitely not boyfriend material.

Then, like divine intervention, a name surfaces from my subconscious. One that sounds plausible and decidedly human.

“Asher Vaughn.”

The words hang in the air between us, and the airport noise seems to fade to white noise. Daniel’s expression shifts from skeptical to confused, and my stomach starts to drop as I realize something about that name feels… familiar.

“Wait—the hockey player? From Philadelphia?” Oh shit. “You’re dating that Asher Vaughn?”

I nod, even as my pulse skyrockets.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. Why did I say that? Maybe hockey players date normal people all the time. In theory, one might even date someone like me.

“Yup.” I speak around the sudden knot in my throat. “That’s him.”

“Didn’t I just see something on ESPN about his contract situation?” Maya chimes in helpfully. “The Philly team didn’t renew his contract, is that right?”

“Professional sports can be unpredictable.” I sound so confident that I almost convince myself. Thank god for that ESPN sportscaster. “He’s handling everything really well.”

“Is he meeting you here?” Daniel’s sharp gaze sweeps the baggage claim area like a hawk searching for prey. “I’d love to meet him.”

Shit.

“Oh, no, he couldn’t make it,” I lie. “He’s, um, really busy right now. Even though he’s not with a team at the moment, he still has some professional obligations during the hockey season.”

Is it even hockey season? Do they have seasons? Dammit, I have no idea.

Daniel’s mouth curves into that smug smile that used to make me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass. “That’s unfortunate. Would’ve been interesting to meet the man who managed to capture Kat Sanders’s heart.”

Managed. Like dating me is some kind of endurance test that requires special skills and possibly hazard pay.

“Well, actually—” I start to formulate some kind of graceful exit strategy when Daniel’s expression changes, his eyes focusing on something over my shoulder.

“Holy shit. Isn’t that him right now?”

The bottom drops out of my stomach. I turn in slow motion, already knowing this is going to be spectacularly bad, and—

Oh.

Oh no.

Striding through baggage claim like he owns the entire airport is Asher Vaughn. The actual, real-life, devastatingly attractive professional athlete I just claimed to be dating.

In person, he’s even more overwhelming than his highlight reel suggested.

Taller, broader, radiating the kind of controlled power that makes the air around him seem to vibrate with potential energy.

His dark coat stretches across shoulders that speak of years spent training his body into a weapon, and even from this distance I can see the sharp focus in his expression as he scans the carousel.

He looks tired, maybe a little irritated, but in that brooding antihero way that somehow makes him even more attractive. Like he’s starring in his own personal action movie and everyone else is just background extras.

This cannot be happening. What are the actual mathematical odds?

Astronomical. And not in my favor.

“Well?” Daniel glances from me to Asher and back, looking confused and just a little suspicious. “Aren’t you going to say hello to your boyfriend?”

Maya watches with obvious fascination, and I can feel other passengers starting to take notice. Someone’s definitely recognized him—I catch a teenager pretending to take a selfie while obviously filming. Whispered conversations are breaking out around us like wildfire.

My heart pounds against my ribs hard enough to crack bone. I have exactly two options: admit I’m a pathetic liar and watch Daniel’s smugness reach nuclear levels before I melt into the airport floor, or…

Lean into the absolute chaos.

I’ve made worse decisions in my life. Probably. Maybe not quite this publicly catastrophic, but still.

Besides, how hard can it be? Pretend for thirty seconds, wave goodbye to Daniel and the woman he’s decided is “marriage material,” then get out of this airport and put the whole thing behind me. Easy.

I take a deep breath that does nothing to calm my racing pulse, square my shoulders like I’m heading into battle, and start walking toward Asher Vaughn.

Each step feels like wading through quicksand. I’m deeply aware of Daniel’s gaze laser focused on my back, of the harsh fluorescent lighting overhead, and of the fact that I’m about to accost a complete stranger who happens to be a professional athlete.

Stranger things have probably happened to him. Right?

Please, god, let stranger things have happened to him.