Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
There was something incredibly sad about drinking in a bar on a Wednesday night.
Lacey swirled the ice in her glass until it made a small cyclone in her whiskey and ginger ale. Normally she wouldn’t have blown six bucks on a drink she could’ve made at home, but she was in the mood to drink alone without being alone. A midweek Moonie’s was the perfect spot to achieve her goals.
After leaving Sam’s house, she’d driven home, but when she saw the blue light of the TV through the living room curtains, she didn’t go inside. Gavin and Leo were wonderful and she genuinely loved and adored them, but they were nosier than Crane Cove’s entire population.
There were regulars dotted around the bar, some in the same state of self-imposed exile as Lacey, and others in small groups. One of those groups were some teachers, having what she knew they called “professional development.” Her ex Mitch was in the group, and so was Marianne Warner, who’d cozied up to her and hired her as the assistant cheer coach at the high school, right up until Lacey had started dating Mitch. Then it was goodbye Marianne, and goodbye extra income from coaching.
Not that she would have made a lot, but every extra few hundred dollars counted when it came to her mountain of debt.
She should’ve said yes to Sam and asked for money.
Lacey gulped some of her drink to muffle the awful feeling in her stomach from even thinking that. She wasn’t mercenary enough to ask for money. She wasn’t desperate enough to ask for money. Not yet.
“I’m going to ask her.” Marianne’s voice cut through the country classic playing on the jukebox and scraped across Lacey’s nerves like sandpaper.
She hadn’t had enough to drink to deal with Marianne.
Her former friend dropped onto the empty stool next to her, with Mitch hovering behind.
“Lacey,” she began, the edges of her voice fuzzy with alcohol, “are you really dating Sam Shoop?”
“Marianne, why are you doing this?” Mitch asked, and it was on the tip of Lacey’s tongue to thank him, but he didn’t stop there. “There’s no way it’s true.”
Lacey’s body tensed. No, it wasn’t true, but she hated Mitch’s tone. The patronizing sneer she could hear because she’d known too many men like him.
“How do you know it’s not true?” Lacey challenged, forcing herself to relax and remain non-combative. They were schoolyard bullies in full-grown clothing; allowing them to see a rise in her only encouraged them.
“Because he’s Sam Shoop, and you’re nobody,” Mitch reminded her. “It’s not like you’re that good in bed.”
A container of neon-colored swizzle sticks wasn’t that far from her hands. Could she stab him through the heart? No, probably not. But his eyeballs were another story.
“I thought he was dating Jenna Fox,” Marianne pitched in, draining her Dirty Shirley. She got them because they came with a cherry, and she was convinced it was sexy to tie the stem in a knot with her tongue.
Less than two minutes in, and Lacey was already exhausted by them. “So why did you ask me?”
“Because Edith Nelson heard it straight from the horse’s mouth,” Marianne said, sliding her glass in Moonie’s direction to try and get a refill.
“You know how else I know it’s not true,” Mitch continued like no one else had spoken, “because she’s here, drinking by herself. Why aren’t you snuggled up with your new boyfriend, Lace? Missing someone?”
“I wanted a drink, and Sam doesn’t drink.” Both things were true. Maybe she could skirt around the truth for twenty-four hours even in the face of direct questioning.
Mitch leaned in, pitching his voice low while Marianne complained loudly to Moonie that she wanted another drink after he’d ignored her hint. “You know you don’t need to go to all this trouble to make me jealous, right? Kind of shooting for the stars there with Sam Shoop. If you want me back?—”
“I don’t,” Lacey cut him. “I have moved on to bigger and better things.”
“Oh my god, so it’s true !” Marianne squealed.
Lacey should’ve known she’d hear that part. The accidental double entendre was absolutely true, though.
“If Sam said it was…” Lacey muttered into the last remnants of her drink.
“I want to know everything,” Marianne gushed, linking her arm with Lacey’s in the kind of grip that could only be loosened with a crowbar.
“There isn’t a lot to tell. I wasn’t expecting Sam to say anything.”
Lacey shouldn’t be encouraging this. Every word took her down a slippery slope she had no good way back up without looking like a desperate, lying loser. But fuck if it didn’t feel nice to have Marianne clawing to be her friend again and to have the upper hand this time.
“He’s a really good cook,” Lacey said, motioning for Moonie to close out her small tab. That was unnecessary fuel to the fire, but it paid immediate dividends.
“Guess you’re really out of the picture, Mitch,” Marianne teased, almost falling off her stool as she leaned across Lacey.
“You’re drunk,” he sneered.
“And yet she’s not wrong.” Lacey signed the receipt and pocketed her debit card. “It’s been great catching up, you two. I’ll see you around.”
Extracting herself from Marianne mostly took speed rather than strength or skill. Drunks weren’t known for their reflex time. Which also made dodging Mitch’s grab for her arm as easy as dancing.
The puddles in the parking lot glowed with the reflection of neon and streetlights. It was between downpours, but a fine mist hung in the air and rested delicately on her skin and in her hair. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the cold, damp air, then unlocked her car.
The song on the radio after she started the engine was “Barcelona . ”
Hard rain drummed against her window. Lacey’s eyes were closed, but she couldn’t sleep. She kept replaying the scene at the bar over and over in her head.
She’d told Sam she would neither confirm nor deny the rumor they were dating, but she’d done a lot more confirming than denying with Marianne and Mitch.
Maybe she shouldn’t have told Sam no. What was wrong with pretending to be his girlfriend for a little bit? Sure, she’d take the brunt of the gossip in the planned breakup, but being known as Sam Shoop’s ex-girlfriend was a hell of a lot more appealing than being Mitch Appleton’s ex-girlfriend.
Fuck, she’d done stupider shit for dumber reasons.
But Sam was…
Lacey sighed, stretched, and squirmed to find a position that might work better.
Sam was as elusive as sleep.
And he was supposed to be. Sam Shoop was supposed to have stayed forever in her memory as a single, fantastic night. He wasn’t supposed to come back and be around to witness her lowest moments.
Maybe that was why she hadn’t told him yet. That his forgetfulness was a blessing allowing her to be perfectly preserved in his mind.
If he even thought about her.
Lacey had spent the years since “Barcelona” first came on her radio wondering if the sexy yet sweet song was about her. The location was correct. But there was the strong possibility that she wasn’t the first or last person he’d fucked in Barcelona.
Then he’d shown up in the last place she ever expected to see him. They’d lived in the same cities during various points in their lives, but had never run into each other. Not that there was anywhere to hide in Crane Cove. As quickly as her romantic brain could spin up a Cinderella fantasy, Sam brought it crashing down by asking if they knew each other. Though it had taken until tonight for her to be convinced he really didn’t remember and wasn’t just snubbing her.
Could she fake a relationship? Probably. She’d pretended to still be in love with guys she’d given up on while she figured out her next move before. But she could read them like flashing neon billboards. Sam was the bottom line of the eye test. Improv relied on being able to tell what the other person’s next move was.
It would be nice to put the whole Mitch thing to bed once and forever. Plus, Sam was a great cook, and she’d absolutely hold him to the food part of the proposed bargain.
What else could she get out of this? Could she get out of Crane Cove? Sam had connections. A lot of them. The entertainment industry ran on word of mouth, and a few well-placed words could open a lot of doors for her.
Why couldn’t she have thought of all the pros when Sam had asked her?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The next time someone asked her to be their small-town fake girlfriend, Lacey was going to make sure she got their number.
On Thursdays the studio didn’t open until mid-morning, and Lacey tried to get there a half-hour before opening to get set up for the day. But since Tuesdays and Thursdays Gavin drove to Eugene and Corvallis to teach ballroom classes at the universities there, she had a tendency to lose track of time. So ten minutes before her day was supposed to start, Lacey stood in front of the studio door, fumbling with the keys that refused to stay in her hand.
“Mornin’.”
Lacey jumped, dropping her keys again. “Fuck.”
“I’ll get them,” Sam said, bending at the same time she did. Their heads collided with a brain-rattling smack.
“That’s cuter in the movies,” Lacey said, rubbing her head before accepting her keys from Sam. “What are you doing here? ”
“I brought lunch,” he said, and innocently held up a paper bag he’d repurposed from the yarn store.
“What’s in there?” she asked, finally successfully opening the door and ushering Sam inside with a dramatic wave of her hand.
“Kind of a fall harvest salad,” Sam said, stepping past her into the studio lobby. Lacey flipped on the lights and headed back towards the office. “Roasted butternut squash, chicken, apples, cranberries, candied walnuts, goat cheese, and a maple dijon dressing.”
Lacey turned on the light in the office and dumped her stuff in Gavin’s chair. “You brought me food?”
“I did say I’d bring you lunch,” Sam reminded her. “For my stupid idea.”
“About that.” Lacey took the bag from him because she wasn’t about to pass up what sounded like a fantastic salad. “Maybe it’s not as stupid as I initially thought.”
“No, it’s pretty dumb.”
“Okay, I won’t argue about that, but I’m in.”
“You’re…in?” Sam frowned, like she’d spoken in Latin instead of English.
“I’ll pretend to be your girlfriend for a while.” Lacey sat down to change her shoes.
“Why?” he asked suspiciously.
“Because I’m a wonderful, selfless person,” she answered sarcastically, lacing up her tap shoes. “Can we talk about this later? I have a class soon. Just…don’t tell anyone I’m not your girlfriend, okay?”
“I think I can avoid talking to most people. When did you want to talk?”
“Um…” Lacey looked at the class schedule taped to the wall. “How about two? That’s when I was going to eat lunch.”
“I will be back around two.” Sam took a step toward the door, then stopped with his hand on the frame. “Why did you change your mind?”
“Because I need you too. You’re not the only one with a big reputation.”
Lacey was halfway done with her salad when Sam showed up that afternoon. If he wasn’t such a good cook, she’d be madder at him. But as it stood, it was hard to be mad at someone who made a salad taste like life was worth living.
“You’re late,” she said around a mouth of greens.
“Sorry,” Sam mumbled, looking around the office for a place to sit. He settled for a corner of Gavin’s desk. “How’s lunch?”
“Good enough that I’d let you bring me another one.” Lacey washed down her bite with her can of sparkling water. “Where’s your lunch?”
“I ate at home. To avoid talking to people.”
“Do you usually go home to eat and then come back to town?” she asked, half to make small talk and half out of genuine curiosity.
“No. Usually if I had something else going on in town, I’d eat at the hotel or Cranberry Brothers. But since I’m ignoring everyone I know at those places until we could talk, I went home.”
“Smart.” Lacey fished around for a candied walnut. “Do you still want to do this thing?”
“Yes,” Sam said without missing a beat, “but I don’t understand why you do.”
“I told you, I’ve got a big reputation.” When he stared at her, she sighed and filled in the blanks. “I briefly dated a guy in town who has made it his mission to make everyone think I’m the psycho ex-girlfriend of their nightmares. Or at least prove he’s something special and convince everyone I’m not over him. I don’t think it gets more ‘onward and upward’ than dating a rock star.”
“I mean, I could be a rocket scientist.”
“I think if you were a rocket scientist you’d be over the moon that I was even talking to you.”
“So you’re using me?” Sam crossed his arms.
“I think the usage is mutual, buddy.” Lacey set down her salad on the desk. She had a tendency to talk with her hands, and flinging salad around the room wasn’t going to make a good impression. “I thought about it, okay? I don’t think my reputation can necessarily get any worse. Like…I’ve hit rock bottom, but I don’t think you’re a jackhammer. At least I’m in control of the whispering if I’m with you. The pros outweigh the cons. “
Sam was quiet for a moment, his hand hovering over his pocket.
“Can I write that down? That jackhammer thing?”
Lacey raised an eyebrow. “Why? Are you going to put it in a song?”
“Maybe. I liked the way it sounded.”
“Sure. But I want credit or money.” She thought for a moment. “More the money than the credit.”
“If this ends up on an album, I’ll write you a check,” Sam promised, tapping his phone screen quickly with his thumbs, writing down her words. It wasn’t Lacey’s first time being a muse, but normally she didn’t know she’d contributed to songs until after they were written, and they were usually written about her body. An ember of pride burned in her belly. A known lyricist like Sam had liked her words.
“So how do we do this?” he asked, putting his phone face down on the desk.
“I don’t know. This wasn’t my idea. Didn’t you have a plan?”
“Yes, but it didn’t involve playing off a live person.” Sam linked his fingers behind his head and looked up at the ceiling.
“Maybe some ground rules,” Lacey suggested, fixating on her salad so she wouldn’t fixate on the flex of lean muscles in his arms. Sam wasn’t a bulky guy; in a different life, he could’ve been a dancer. “How long will this last? What kind of PDA are we comfortable with? That sort of stuff.”
“What are you comfortable with?”
“Well, we’ve already slept together, so…”
Sam slipped off the corner of the desk, catching himself before he fell on the floor. “We what?”
Lacey’s cheeks heated. “We had sex.”
“I didn’t think we were starting with backstory, but we should have one, I guess…”
“Sam, we actually had sex.” Lacey mimed penetrative sex with her hands. “You’ve seen me naked.”
He regarded her suspiciously, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “No, I think I’d remember that.”
Her traitorous body flushed with something other than intense embarrassment. Too bad he didn’t actually remember her body.
“It was…umm…seven-ish years ago. You were on tour, and it was after your show in Barcelona…”
“No…” Sam shook his head slowly, like his brain was on an extreme delay. “She had really dark hair and?—”
“I was going through a phase. My hair was super dark brown, and I did my makeup a lot heavier. I think I believed that she who died wearing the most eyeliner won.” A nervous laugh bubbled up to break the tension.
“When were you planning on telling me?”
The accusatory tone activated Lacey’s fight and flight response. The surge of adrenaline sent conflicting signals through her body to straighten her backbone to an iron will and to curl into a defensive ball.
“About half past never.”
“I didn’t deserve to know?”
“Your shitty memory isn’t my responsibility.” Her fight response had won.
Sam lowered himself back down onto the corner of the desk, his ego deflated like a forgotten party balloon.
“At least I can stop thinking I’m losing my mind.” He combed his fingers through his hair, leaving it sticking up at a few odd angles that Lacey had no desire to smooth down. Disheveled was adorable on him. “I kept thinking I knew you.”
“We definitely know each other.”
He had the decency to blush profusely, and Lacey wondered if he remembered everything the way she did.
“So I guess that’s a good first rule,” Lacey continued when Sam didn’t say anything. “No sex. We limit our affection to public spaces.”
“Do we remember that night differently? Because I remember the sex being really good,” Sam said.
“It was good,” Lacey agreed, struggling to keep the smug smirk off her face, “but this is fake, remember? Fucking confuses things.” Another thought popped into her head. “You can’t real cheat on me while I’m your fake girlfriend, either. So I guess we’re celibate until this is over.”
“What do you mean I can’t real cheat on you?”
“If you sneeze, the media reports on the size of the booger that flew out of your nose, Sam. And we both know the rumor mill around here could give them a run for their money, so if you’re sleeping around, it’s going to get out. Your dick causing drama defeats the purpose of our arrangement.”
A half groan, half frustrated growl rumbled in Sam’s throat.
“This was your idea,” Lacey reminded him .
“Not the sex part,” he muttered under his breath like a petulant teenager.
Lacey wanted to move forward, but the alarm on her phone blared like a tornado warning siren. Lunch time was over.
“Can we talk about this later?” she asked, putting the lid back on the salad container and holding it out to Sam. He took it like it was a bomb.
“Uh, sure.” He drummed his fingers on the container. “When?”
“Tonight? Dinner?” Lacey suggested, her mouth already watering at the prospect of more Sam food. She found her lip gloss and reapplied so she wouldn’t actually start salivating.
“It’s Thursday.” When she didn’t respond to his blunt statement, he added, “It’s barbecue night at Cranberry Brothers.”
“Are you inviting me?”
“No.” Sam’s cheeks turned rosy at his quick refusal. “I mean, we’re not ready. My friends will be there.”
Lacey stood, and so did Sam. The office was small, and the tips of their shoes butted against each other. She didn’t even have enough room to take a deep breath.
“What are you going to tell them? This is going to come up.”
“I don’t know. I’ll try to be aloof.” Sam casually shrugged one shoulder. A cheeky grin was hiding in the corner of his mouth. “Do you want to come over for dessert?”
Logically Lacey knew that the way he said dessert wasn’t meant to be an invitation , but someone needed to explain that to the damp spot that was rapidly forming on her panties. Even if her brain forgot, her body would remember how he’d once tasted her like she was a delicate sorbet or the finest French chantilly cream.
“What’s for dessert?” she asked, failing to not sound breathless.
“Strawberry ice cream.”
Lacey managed to scrape together enough pieces of her brain to get his phone number and a promise to pick her up after he was done hanging out with his friends.
“Don’t you need to know where I live?” she teased, her hand resting on the handle to the door.
“I know where you live. 1467 Sycamore.”
“Okay, stalker.”
“You told me last night, remember?” Sam clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Look who has a shitty memory now.”
Impulse control was a skill Lacey still struggled with, and that was how she justified what she did. She wiped off some of her freshly reapplied lip gloss onto her thumb, then smeared it on his lower lip. She batted away his hand when he tried to clean it off.
“Don’t. It makes it look like we were doing something interesting in here.”
Sam considered her for a moment. “Clever.”
“You didn’t bring me lunch for my good looks,” Lacey joked, opening the door before her impulse control got any worse.
“They didn’t hurt,” Sam said casually, more to himself than to her. “I’ll see you later.”