Chapter 9
Piper
The Ashwood Café smells like salvation and poor life choices. I'm twenty minutes early for our "partner meeting" because apparently, I deal with anxiety by showing up to fake relationship negotiations with military punctuality and three different outfit changes.
I landed on "casually put-together influencer who definitely didn't spend forty-five minutes choosing jeans" which is really just code for "I'm spiraling and my closet looks like a boutique exploded."
I claim a corner table with good lighting for potential content—habit—then immediately question whether documenting our fake dating strategy session counts as authentic or performative.
My phone buzzes. Ryder.
Ryder: Running 5 min late. Coach wanted to discuss last night's "performance issues."
I wince. His terrible game is at least partially my fault. The viral video, the distraction, all of it.
Me: Take your time. I'll be here overthinking everything.
Ryder: That's very on-brand for you.
Me: Rude but accurate.
I order my usual mocha from the counter where a woman around my age is working. She's got dark hair in a messy bun, flour dusting her black apron, and the kind of focused efficiency that says she's been slammed since opening.
"Mocha, extra shot?" she asks, already reaching for the espresso.
"Yeah, how did you—"
"You came in yesterday. Same order." She's pulling shots without looking up. "I'm Lily. Dotty's got the day off, so you're stuck with me."
"Where's Dotty?"
"Doctor's appointment in Anchorage. She'll be back tomorrow, probably with three new stories and a bag of fancy coffee she'll never actually use.
" Lily slides my mocha across the counter in a hand-painted mug—this one featuring what might be the northern lights or possibly just abstract swooshes. "Muffin?"
"Blueberry?"
She plates one without comment, already turning to help the next customer.
Efficient. Professional. The complete opposite of Dotty's warm chattiness, but the café runs just as smoothly.
I'm halfway through my mocha when Ryder walks in, and my brain short-circuits. He's wearing dark jeans and a flannel over a thermal that somehow makes him look like a lumberjack model despite the exhaustion evident in his posture. His hair's still damp from a shower.
Our eyes meet across the café—acknowledgment, maybe, that we're actually doing this ridiculous thing.
He orders coffee—black, because of course he takes it black—and joins me at the corner table, sliding into the chair across from me with the careful movements of someone whose muscles hate him.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Took a hit into the boards last night. I'll live." He wraps his hands around his coffee mug like he's trying to absorb warmth through osmosis. "Coach spent twenty minutes dissecting everything I did wrong, which was apparently everything."
"I'm sorry. About the video, about—"
"Don't." He cuts me off gently. "We already established this isn't your fault. Besides, we're fixing it. Strategically."
"Right. Strategically." I pull out my phone and open a fresh note. "So. Fake dating. I've researched this extensively."
His eyebrow lifts. "You researched fake dating?"
"I research everything. It's kind of my thing." I angle my phone so he can see the absolutely unhinged notes I compiled at 2 AM. "There are rules. Protocols. Common pitfalls to avoid."
"You made a presentation."
"I made bullet points. There's a difference."
"There's really not."
I ignore him, scrolling through my notes. "Okay, so. First thing: we need a story. How we got together. People will ask, and we need to be consistent."
"Can't we just say we're neighbors who started dating?"
"Too boring. Nobody believes neighbors just casually start dating without a catalyst." I tap my pen against my mug. "We need a moment. Something people can latch onto."
"The snowball fight," he suggests.
"Already viral. We can't claim that as our 'getting together' story when everyone watched it happen." I chew my lip, thinking. "What about the fire? When you taught me about the wood stove?"
"Pretty sure teaching someone basic survival skills isn't romantic."
"Everything's romantic with the right framing." I'm already typing. "You came over to check on me, found me freezing and helpless—"
"You weren't helpless."
"Ryder. I was absolutely helpless. I couldn't start a fire and I was wearing every sweater I owned layered for warmth." I meet his eyes. "You saved me from hypothermia, taught me the basics, and we connected over hot chocolate and—"
"We didn't have hot chocolate."
"We're embellishing. Keep up." I continue typing. "The point is, it's a good story. Small-town hero helps city girl, sparks fly. Literally and metaphorically."
He's fighting a smile. I can see it in the corner of his mouth, the way his jaw relaxes slightly. "You're terrifyingly good at this."
"Three years as an influencer teaches you how to craft narratives." I save my notes and set down my phone. "Okay, story established. Next: couple behavior. We need to be believable."
"I know how to date, Piper."
"When's the last time you dated someone?"
His pause is telling. "Two years ago."
"Two years?" I lean back, surprised. "You've been single for two years?"
"I've been busy. Hockey, firefighting, not dying in the Alaska wilderness." He shifts in his chair. "What about you? Besides the viral breakup disaster, when's the last time you were in an actual relationship?"
The question stings more than it should. "Chad and I were together for three years. Before that, college boyfriend for two years. I'm actually very good at relationships."
"Except for the part where he dumped you on a livestream."
"Wow. Going right for the throat, Lockwood."
"Sorry." He runs his hand through his hair, and the gesture is so genuinely distressed I forgive him immediately. "That was—sorry. I'm tired and Coach reamed me out and I'm taking it out on you."
"It's fine." I wave it off, even though it's not quite fine. "You're right anyway. I'm clearly excellent at picking partners, which is why I'm now fake dating a grumpy hockey player to rebuild my brand while he uses me to convince scouts he's marketable."
"I'm not using you."
The intensity in his voice makes me look up. His grey eyes have gone dark, serious in a way that makes my pulse skip.
"We agreed this was mutually beneficial," I say carefully.
"It is. But that doesn't mean—" He stops, jaw working. "Never mind. What's next on your fake dating checklist?"
I study him for a moment, trying to read what he's not saying. But his expression has shuttered, and I know pushing won't get me anywhere.
"Physical affection," I say finally. "We need to be comfortable with casual touching. Hand-holding, arm around shoulders, that kind of thing."
"I can hold your hand, Piper."
"Can you? Because last night in your truck, you shook my hand like we were closing a business deal."
"We were closing a business deal."
"A fake dating business deal. Which requires physical chemistry people will believe." I extend my hand across the table, palm up. "Show me."
He stares at my hand like it might explode. "Now?"
"We're in public. Perfect practice opportunity." I wiggle my fingers. "Come on, Lockwood. Pretend you like me."
"I do like you," he mutters, but he takes my hand.
And okay, that's—that's not fair. His palm is warm and slightly rough, calluses from hockey sticks and fire equipment, and his fingers curl around mine with surprising gentleness.
My brain immediately starts cataloging details I have no business noticing: the way his thumb brushes across my knuckles, how his hand completely engulfs mine, the fact that this simple contact is making my pulse do complicated things.
"See?" I say, and my voice comes out slightly breathless. "Not so hard."
"It's just holding hands."
"Right. Just holding hands. Very professional hand-holding." I'm babbling now, which is what I do when I'm nervous. "Although you might want to look less like you're performing a hostage negotiation and more like you actually want to touch me."
His eyes meet mine. "I do want to touch you."
Oh.
Oh no.
That tone. That look. The way his thumb is still moving across my knuckles like he doesn't realize he's doing it.
I pull my hand back, probably too quickly. "Good. Great. That's—we'll work on it. What else?" I'm scrolling through my notes with shaky fingers. "Oh! Sports knowledge. I need to understand hockey."
"You came to a game."
"I came to a game and understood approximately none of it. There was a lot of yelling and skating and you did some kind of choreographed dance to Footloose that I'm still processing."
Now he's definitely smiling. "The pre-game ritual."
"The pre-game humiliation, you mean. Although I have to admit, your sprinkler technique was impressive." I lean forward, grateful for safer ground. "But seriously, if I'm going to be your fake girlfriend, I need to know the basics. What's a hockey ball?"
He blinks. "A what?"
"A hockey ball. You know, the thing you hit with the sticks."
He blinks. Then understanding dawns, followed by the start of a grin. "Piper. It's a puck."
"A puck?"
"A hockey puck. Not a ball. A puck."
My face burns. "Oh my God. I've been calling it a hockey ball in my head this entire time."
"That's—" He's laughing now, actual laughing, and the sound transforms his whole face. "That's the most city girl thing you've ever said."
"Shut up. Sports have balls. Basketball, football, soccer—"
"Hockey has pucks. Small, black, rubber pucks that we hit with sticks on ice."
"This is mortifying."
"This is hilarious." He's still grinning, and I want to be annoyed but he looks so genuinely happy I can't manage it. "Okay, new rule: I teach you hockey basics. You can't be my girlfriend if you call it a hockey ball."
"Fake girlfriend."
"Right. Fake girlfriend who needs to know the difference between a puck and a ball."