Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Kat
Now that Asher’s gone back to the guest house, I pad through the main cabin and head upstairs, feeling this weird mix of energy and exhaustion.
This morning, I woke up in my little apartment in Philadelphia, dreading the next few weeks of holiday awkwardness and family questions about my love life.
Tonight, I’m going to bed in Sam’s cabin with a fake boyfriend who’s somehow managed to charm my entire family in the span of a few hours.
Thankfully, I wasn’t as tongue-tied around him as I thought I’d be once we settled into dinner.
Despite being intimidatingly handsome—seriously, the man looks like he stepped off the cover of a fitness magazine—he’s surprisingly easy to talk to.
No ego, no pretension, just normal conversation about normal things.
Well, as normal as anything can be when you’re learning basic facts about someone you’re supposed to have been dating for seven months.
When I reach the bedroom, I’m reminded that I can see into the guest house from here too, just like I can from downstairs. The curtains are open across the way, and I can see Asher moving around, probably getting ready for bed.
I should look away. I know I should. But I don’t.
I watch as he pulls off his sweater, revealing a white t-shirt underneath that fits him in a way that should probably be illegal.
My stomach does this little flutter at the flex of his muscles, the way the fabric pulls across his chest and shoulders.
Jesus, the man is built like he was designed by someone who’s somehow peeked in on all of my dirtiest dreams.
Suddenly very aware that if I can see him, he can probably see me too, I grab the sleep clothes I unpacked into the dresser earlier and head into the bathroom to change. The last thing I need is to get caught staring at him like some kind of creeper on day one of our arrangement.
In the bathroom, I change into my pajamas—soft cotton pants and an oversized t-shirt that I stole from an ex-boyfriend about three moves ago. While I’m in there, I brush my teeth too, my mind wandering as I go through the familiar routine.
An idea hits me for a character, the way they sometimes do at random moments.
Some kind of woodland creature, maybe a fox with oversized ears or a rabbit wearing a tiny scarf.
I love creating animal characters for children’s books—there’s something about giving personality to creatures that are already naturally adorable that never gets old.
I quickly hurry back to the bedroom for the sketchbook I always keep on the nightstand and flip to a clean page.
I sketch it out fast, just rough lines and basic shapes so I won’t forget the concept later.
The sketchbook is filled with similar drawings—quick character ideas, random doodles, half-formed concepts that pop into my head at weird times.
It’s sort of my brain dump space, the place where I capture ideas before they disappear.
Once I’m satisfied with the rough sketch, I set the book aside and pick up my phone to text Samantha. Thankfully, the research base she’s stationed at has WiFi, so we can still trade messages even from halfway around the world.
ME: Hope things are going well in Antarctica! *penguin emoji* Just wanted to let you know I made it to the cabin safely. Thanks for all the food you left. I seriously owe you big time.
I pause, staring at the screen. How exactly do I explain what happened today?
ME: There’s been a bit of a strange development though.
I hit send before I can overthink it, then immediately regret being so vague. Now she’s going to be curious, and explaining this whole situation over text seems impossible.
My phone rings just a few seconds after the text goes through, but it’s not Sam calling back. It’s my mother.
“Hi, Mom,” I say as I lift the phone to my ear.
“Hey, sweetheart! I hope I’m not calling too late. I just wanted to check how you and Asher are settling in at the cabin.”
“Great,” I say automatically, going along with her assumption that Asher is staying here in the main cabin with me. “Everything’s perfect. The cabin is as beautiful as always.”
“Oh good, I’m glad! Anyway, I won’t keep you long, I’m sure you’re tired after your long travel day.
But since you couldn’t stay long today with all the chaos, your father and I would love to have you both over for dinner tomorrow night.
Just the four of us this time, so we can really get to know Asher. ”
My stomach does a little flip. Another performance, another evening of pretending we’re madly in love when we barely know each other’s favorite colors.
But we did our prep work tonight, trading basic information and establishing some kind of foundation for our fake relationship.
Hopefully that’ll be enough to get us through a longer family visit.
“That sounds nice, Mom. I’ll check with Asher and make sure he doesn’t have any other plans.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll make time. That man clearly adores you—anyone with eyes can see that. Tell him we’re looking forward to getting to know him better.”
If only she knew how little either of us actually knows about each other.
After we hang up, I text Asher right away, pulling up the newly added contact on my phone.
ME: My mom wants us to come over for dinner tomorrow night. Just my parents this time so they can interrogate you properly. Are you up for round two?
Through the window, I can see him glance at his phone when it lights up, then pick it up to read my message. I wish I could see his face better. Is he annoyed? Regretting this whole arrangement already? I wouldn’t blame him if he was.
His response comes back surprisingly quickly.
ASHER: Of course. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t spend time with my girl’s family?
My girl. My gaze gets hung up on those words for a moment, which is ridiculous since this is all fake.
I look up from my phone’s screen and startle as I realize that Asher is looking over at me. My heart jumps as our eyes meet across the distance, and I give a little wave, not sure what else to do. He dips his chin in response, looking a little amused.
God, I probably look like a deer in headlights.
Trying to act natural, I pick my phone up again and send another text.
ME: Just warning you, my dad will probably want to discuss hockey stats for the entire meal. He’s been following your career apparently.
ASHER: I can handle hockey talk. Question is, can you handle watching me be charming for three hours straight?
I snort out loud at that. The man’s got confidence, I’ll give him that.
ME: I think I’ll manage somehow.
ASHER: We’ll see about that, bright eyes. I can be pretty irresistible when I put my mind to it.
This time, I do an actual double take. Holy shit, how did he come up with a nickname for me already? Maybe it’s what he calls all the girls he dates—or, in my case, pretends to date. That’s probably it, because it seems like he had that pet name locked and loaded.
ME: Should I meet you there? I can give you their address.
ASHER: Nah, we can head over together. Probably better to keep up appearances. I’ll meet you at the main cabin around 5:30?
ME: Okay, sounds good. And thank you again.
ASHER: No problem. I’m getting something good out of this deal too.
Through the window, he gestures around him at the guest house, and I laugh softly. It doesn’t really seem like an even trade, but if he’s satisfied with it, that’s good enough for me.
We both seem to realize we should probably give each other some privacy, because I see him reach for his curtains at the same time I reach for mine. I tug mine closed, cutting off the sight of him doing the same.
After I crawl into bed and turn off the bedside light, I lie in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling.
I can’t quite believe how quickly he’s adapted to this whole situation.
While I’m still reeling a bit from everything that’s happened, he’s sliding into the fake boyfriend thing like he was born for the role.
I’m glad. It’s honestly pure luck that the guy I accosted at an airport has turned out to be a nice guy who’s quick-thinking enough to pull off a lie of this scale.
But underneath my practical relief that we might actually pull this fake relationship off is something else—a giddy kind of excitement that I haven’t felt in years. For the first time since booking my flight home, I’m actually looking forward to the holidays instead of dreading them.
The next day passes in a weird haze of nervous energy.
Asher comes by in the morning for coffee and some breakfast, and after that, I try to give him some space, throwing myself into getting things organized and setting up a makeshift art station by the living room windows after he heads back across the way.
But I keep finding excuses to glance toward the guest house.
At one point, I see him pacing as he takes what looks like a somewhat serious phone call, and I wonder if it’s about his career situation.
I have no idea how hockey contracts work or how difficult it is to get signed to a new team, but the tension in his shoulders makes me think it must be pretty stressful.
Sometime around noon, two guys show up to deliver his rental car—one of them driving a sleek black sedan and the other following behind in a plain blue car, probably to give the first guy a ride back.
I watch Asher step outside and greet them, and it doesn’t escape my notice that he shakes each of their hands, slipping what looks like a few bills into their palms. I like that he tipped them well.
He seems like the kind of guy who doesn’t just throw his wealth around like an asshole, expecting people to wait on him hand and foot just because he’s a minor celebrity.