Chapter 7 #2
Or it feels real, which is the problem.
He pulls back slightly. "How was that for practice?"
"Terrible," I lie. "We should try again."
"For the gala," he agrees.
"Right. The gala needs us to be convincing," I say, already leaning back in.
We kiss again. And again. Each kiss becomes less careful, more natural. His hand tangles in my hair while mine grips his flannel shirt like an anchor.
"We're getting good at this," I mumble against his lips.
"Practice makes perfect," he agrees, pulling me closer.
"How much practice do we need?" I ask.
"Lots," he says definitively. "Extensive practice."
"For believability," I add.
"Exactly. Believability," he agrees.
We're such good liars we're even lying to ourselves now.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Delia: Committee observation begins tomorrow.
"The committee's watching us starting tomorrow," I inform Holden, pulling back slightly.
"Then we better be ready," he says, his thumb tracing my jawline.
"Are we ready?" I ask.
"Getting there," he murmurs, and kisses me again.
The kiss deepens, and I forget about committees and contracts and carefully laminated timelines. There's just his mouth on mine, his arms around me, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under my palm.
"Wren," he says against my lips, and my name sounds different when he says it like this—rough and wanting.
"We should stop," I say, making no move to stop.
"We should," he agrees, kissing me again.
"This is just practice," I remind him.
"Just practice," he echoes, but his hand cradles the back of my neck like I'm something precious.
We finally separate when breathing becomes mandatory. I'm dizzy, disoriented, and definitely not thinking about Section 3, subsection 2a of our contract.
"I should go," he says, but doesn't move.
"You should stay," I counter, then panic. "I mean, for more practice. Strategic practice. Committee-approved practice."
"Strategic," he repeats, amused.
"Very strategic," I confirm. "We need to discuss our favorite movies. And books. And whether we're dog people or cat people."
"Cat people are automatically suspicious," he says.
"I have two cats," I inform him.
"Of course you do," he sighs. "What are their names?"
"Amelia Dyer and Lizzie Borden," I admit.
"You named your cats after female serial killers?" he asks.
"I wasn’t in a good place when I got them," I defend.
"That actually makes sense," he laughs. “Should I be concerned?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m fine now, and they are lovely kitties, although they’re terrified of strangers.”
We spend another hour on the couch, creating our fake history while carefully not talking about how real this feels.
He tells me his fake favorite color, which is blue, and his real one, which is green, like my eyes, which makes me blush furiously.
I’m not sure why he has a fake favorite color, but I asked him to be my fake boyfriend, so I have no room to judge.
I explain my complicated relationship with hot chocolate, and he shares his theory that Giuseppe's cooking might be performance art.
"Favorite Christmas movie?" I ask.
"Die Hard," he answers immediately.
"That's not a Christmas movie," I protest.
"It takes place at Christmas," he argues.
"So does Lethal Weapon. That doesn't make it festive," I counter.
"There's Christmas music," he points out.
"There are also explosions," I say.
"Festive explosions," he insists.
"You're impossible," I laugh.
"You're beautiful," he says, then looks surprised at himself.
The words hang between us, too honest for what we're pretending this is.
"That's good," I say quickly. "Very believable. The townsfolk will love that."
"Right. The townsfolk," he agrees, but he's looking at me like he's forgotten what that means.
My phone buzzes again. Three texts from Iris, two from June, and one from Giuseppe that's just heart emojis and what might be a recipe for disaster or lasagna.
"The town already knows about us," I say, showing him the messages.
"That was fast," he observes.
"Small-town information networks are faster than light," I explain. "By tomorrow, everyone will have an opinion about us."
"What will your opinion be?" he asks quietly.
"That we're very good at pretending," I say, though the words feel like lies.
He stands, finally, reluctantly. "I really should go. Early morning at the garage."
"Right. Your actual job," I say, walking him to the door.
We stand there awkwardly, neither of us sure how to end this practice session that felt nothing like practice.
“About that spare room you have.”
I completely forgot. “Oh, yes. It’s down the hall. I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow night. Will that work?”
He nods. "Same time tomorrow?" he asks. "For more rehearsal?"
"Definitely," I agree. "We need all the rehearsals we can get."
"All of it," he confirms.
He leans down and kisses me softly, briefly. "For anyone watching," he explains.
"No one's watching," I point out.
"Practice," he says simply, and disappears into the snowy night.
I close the door and lean against it, my lips still tingling, my heart still racing. Tomorrow the committee watches. Tomorrow we perform for the whole town. Tomorrow, this becomes real in all the ways that matter except the one that counts.
But tonight, in my apartment that smells like blown-out candles and apple juice, I touch my lips and remember the way he said my name. The way his hand felt in my hair. The way we fit together like puzzle pieces that were never supposed to match but somehow do.
Section 3, subsection 2a feels less like a rule and more like a prophecy I'm helpless to prevent. Because I'm already falling, and all the laminated contracts in the world can't stop gravity once it starts pulling you down.
Or in this case, pulling me toward a grumpy man who makes charts about relationships and counts mistletoe for fire hazards and kisses like he's trying to tell the truth with his mouth when his words have to lie.
Three weeks to save my shop. Three weeks to fool the town.
And absolutely no time left to save my heart.