Chapter 5 #2
Maria smirks. “Because we’re right?”
“Because you’re insufferable.”
“And because we love you. Now, breathe, Torres. You’ve got this.” Tiff smiles softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
I exhale, heart still thudding as their faces flicker on the screen—one calm, one chaotic, both exactly what I needed. I glance at the clock glowing on my dashboard. Twenty-eight minutes until our meeting. I hate being late almost as much as I hate that I’ve willingly volunteered for this disaster.
“Okay,” I say, starting the car and heading out of the parking lot toward the coffee shop. “There’s more.”
“There’s more?” Maria perks up instantly. “Torres, what could top paying a hot stranger to be your boyfriend?”
“Please tell me you didn’t proposition a second man.” Tiff sighs.
“I didn’t, and I wouldn’t say top, more like another complication. The universe clearly decided humiliation was a growth opportunity, because I also got assigned a new rookie class today.”
“I thought you said this wasn’t about rookies.” Tiff rolls her eyes.
“I said no such thing,” I snap, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And it kind of is. Just listen.”
“Please continue, but I reserve the right to hang up.”
“Noted.”
Maria waves her wineglass. “New rookie class. Got it.”
“One of them is apparently the coach’s baby brother, Kyle Hendrix.”
“As in the Hendrix brothers, Hendrix?” Tiff whistles under her breath. “Girl, that family’s basically hockey royalty.”
“Yeah, and I’ve been told that he acts like God personally drafted him,” I say, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “Everyone keeps calling him talented, but I’m pretty sure that’s PR code for ‘pain in the ass.’”
“So, let me get this straight.” Maria’s grin turns devious. “You got a fake boyfriend and a high-profile problem-child rookie on the same day? This week is gonna be your villain origin story.”
“Don’t jinx it.” I switch lanes, the light from the dashboard painting my hands gold. “If my life were a movie, this would be the part where the heroine realizes she’s made a series of poor choices but is too far in to back out.”
“You’re assuming this doesn’t end with you marrying one of them.”
“Absolutely not.”
Maria leans closer to the camera, eyes gleaming with wicked delight. “Wouldn’t it be funny if they were the same person?”
“Ha. No. The universe wouldn’t do me that dirty.” I laugh loudly.
“Wouldn’t it?” Maria sing-songs.
Tiff snorts. “You’ve got the worst luck with men. It’s statistically possible.”
“I’m hanging up.”
Maria ignores me, fingers flying across her screen. “Hold up, let me google him.”
“Maria, don’t you dare—”
“Oh my God, Alycia. He’s gorgeous. Like, jawline-for-days, eyes-that-could-sink-a-ship gorgeous. He’s six-two, plays defense, and once got ejected for fighting on the ice. Honestly, sounds like your type.”
I nearly miss my turn, choking out, “He’s not my type. None of them are my type.”
Maria smirks. “You say that, but if your fake boyfriend shows up tonight wearing skates, I’m sending you flowers.”
“You two are evil.”
“Accurate,” Tiff says. “Now, park the car and fix your lipstick; you’ve got fifteen minutes to convince a stranger you’re worth lying for.”
I let out a strangled laugh, the kind that feels halfway between hysteria and prayer. “Thanks. Super helpful pep talk.”
“Anytime,” Maria says sweetly. “Text us if he turns out to be hot enough to ruin your life.”
“Bye.” I hang up before they can make it worse.
The phone screen goes dark, leaving me alone with my reflection in the glass. The café sign glows across the street, soft light bleeding into the darkening sky.
“Okay, Torres,” I whisper, straightening my blazer and grabbing my bag. “Time to meet your fake boyfriend and try not to fall for him.”
The bell above the door chimes as I step inside, the sound soft and almost too cheerful for the state of my nerves. The air smells like espresso and sugar—the warm, rich scent that seeps into everything and clings to sweaters and stays with you long after you’ve left.
My reflection in the glass case by the register has me instantly regretting not going home to change first, but this isn’t a date.
It’s business. A ridiculous fake-dating, save-me-from-my-mother, nothing-but-business arrangement.
I pick a small table tucked away in the corner and open my laptop like a shield.
I even pull up a blank document titled Contractual Terms of Disaster because if I’m going to make a fool of myself, I might as well look organized doing it.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. Just as I’m looking down to check my watch again, the door opens, and everything in me goes still.
He’s here. The guy from the elevator. The stranger who smiled like he already knew how this would end.
He steps inside, shaking off the drizzle, water glinting in his hair under the café lights.
His black jacket clings to broad shoulders, sleeves shoved to his elbows like he’s been fighting with the rain.
He scans the room, and when his eyes land on me, my pulse stutters.
He’s taller than I remembered, or maybe it’s that I’m sitting down, pretending I don’t feel the air shift around us.
“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice is low, rough in a way that curls around the edges of my name, even though he doesn’t say it. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”
“I said I would.” My words come out steadier than I feel. “And you’re late.”
He glances at the clock behind the counter. “By two minutes.”
“Still late.”
He laughs, and the woman at the next table glances over as if she feels it, too. When he slides into the seat across from me, the table suddenly feels too small. His knee almost brushes mine, and every cell in my body braces for the contact that doesn’t come.
“Mind if I sit?”
“You’re already doing it.”
“Fair point.” His grin deepens, lazy and unhurried. “You look like someone about to conduct an interview.”
“I take my fake relationships seriously.”
“Is picking up men in elevators and bribing them to pretend to be your boyfriend a regular occurrence for you?”
“Only on Thursdays.” My cheeks burn before I can stop them.
“Lucky me.”
He’s teasing me, but there’s an edge of truth buried in his words that makes my stomach twist. What kind of sane person picks up a stranger in an elevator and ropes him into playing pretend?
The way he’s looking at me doesn’t help either.
He’s amused, but also curious. It’s as if he’s trying to figure me out, and I don’t know if I want him to.
I drop my gaze to my laptop, pretending to type.
But everything about him is too much in this small café—the clean and woodsy scent of his cologne, the quiet hum of confidence radiating off him like heat.
He must sense my fluster because his voice softens, the teasing giving way to something gentler. “Where do you want to start, sweetheart? Our tragic backstory? Or the part where I heroically fall in love with you at first sight?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I prefer charming.”
“You’re definitely something,” I mutter, fingers flying across the keyboard just to have something to do. “If we’re doing this, we need details. How we met, how long we’ve been dating, and enough information to survive dinner with my mother.”
“Do I get to pick my job? Because I’m thinking I can be a firefighter. Or an astronaut. Maybe… a professional masseuse.”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrays me. “You’re impossible.”
“You look beautiful when you almost smile. I can’t wait to see how your face lights up with a real one.” He tilts his head, studying me as if he’s in no rush.
It’s more than likely a line he tells all his potential dates. I know this, but why does it feel like he’s telling me something true?
“Okay, fine. We met…”
“At a bookstore,” he interrupts.
I arch a brow. “A bookstore?”
He nods solemnly. “You were in the romance section. I was in the cookbooks. Instant connection over poor decisions.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s memorable. But I see your point. Maybe we should stick closer to reality. We met at a coffee shop. It’s technically the truth, and I don’t want to start lying to my future mother-in-law.”
“It’s one fake date. All contractual obligations end the minute we walk out my mom’s door.”
“It doesn’t have to be fake, you know,” he mumbles.
“It’s all it can be.”
The air between us shifts, less teasing now and more… charged. His gaze drags over my face, slow and searching, like he’s trying to find the truth in what I just said.
“It makes it easier to sell the story, right?” he says finally, voice rougher, quieter.
I nod because it’s the safest thing to do. “Right.”
Except it isn’t. The word tastes wrong, too small for the ache sitting in my chest. His eyes stay on me. There’s a pull I can’t seem to look away from, something both warm and stupidly impossible at the same time.
This was supposed to be simple and transactional.
A small lie to keep my mom off my back for a few more months.
But sitting here, watching that flicker of something real cross his face, I can’t help wondering what it would feel like if it wasn’t pretend.
The thought slides under my skin before I can stop it.
He exhales softly, as if he hears every word I’m not saying.
“Relax,” he murmurs, and his tone is less teasing, more tender. “You’re good at this.”
The words shouldn’t matter, but they do. The sincerity in his voice threads through me like a live wire, pulling something loose under my ribs.
“So,” he says after a beat, “what do you want your mom to know about me?”
“That you’re polite, responsible, and capable of using your indoor voice.”
“Brutal.”
“Accurate.”
“Okay, my turn. What do I get to know about you?” He leans forward on his elbows, grin curving slowly.
“This isn’t about me.”
“Sure, it is. If I’m playing your boyfriend, I should at least know your favorite color.”
“Blue,” I answer automatically.
He smiles, slow and knowing. “Knew it.”