Chapter Four
Bella
I've been staring at my closet for approximately forty-seven minutes, and I'm starting to think that maybe I should have put more thought into the wardrobe requirements of fake dating a hockey player.
Do I go for "effortlessly cool girlfriend" or "trying-too-hard-to-impress"?
Is there a middle ground between "librarian chic" and "I'm definitely sleeping with the captain of the hockey team"?
"You're overthinking this," Riley says from her perch on my bed, where she's been providing commentary on my fashion crisis for the past half hour. "It's a house party in Fremont, not the Met Gala."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one who has to convince an entire party that Ryan O'Sullivan is genuinely interested in dating you.
" I pull out a black dress, consider it for three seconds, then shove it back into my closet.
"What if people can tell it's fake? What if we're terrible at this? What if—"
"What if you calm down and remember that you're a badass who negotiated this deal in the first place?" Riley stands up and pushes me aside, diving into my closet with the determination of someone who's made it her personal mission to get me laid. "Here. This one."
She pulls out a dark green sweater that I forgot I owned, paired with jeans that actually fit me properly and boots that make me feel like I could kick down doors if necessary. It's casual but put-together, sexy without trying too hard.
"I look like I'm going to a coffee shop, not trying to make someone jealous."
"You look like yourself, which is exactly what Ryan fell for in the first place."
I freeze in the middle of putting on my earrings. "Ryan didn't fall for anything. This is a business arrangement."
Riley gives me a look that suggests she thinks I'm either lying or incredibly dense. "Bella. The man spent three hours helping you explain economics to him, complimented your teaching, and told you that Tanner Williams is an idiot. If that's not falling, it's at least stumbling pretty hard."
The memory of Ryan's fingers brushing against my face sends a little shiver down my spine.
For a moment, sitting at my dining table surrounded by textbooks and cookie crumbs, it felt like something real was happening between us.
Like maybe this fake dating arrangement was just an excuse to spend time together.
Which is ridiculous, because Ryan O'Sullivan could have any girl on campus. He doesn't need to fake-date the economics tutor to get attention.
"It's called method acting," I tell Riley, applying lip gloss with more force than strictly necessary. "He's committed to making this convincing."
"If you say so." Riley checks her phone. "We should go. Jason's parties always get crowded after nine, and you want to make your grand entrance while people can still see you."
The drive to Fremont takes twenty minutes in Friday night traffic, and I spend most of it trying to calm my nerves. Riley fills the silence with a detailed breakdown of who's likely to be at the party and how quickly word of my new "relationship" will spread through campus.
"Marcus Thompson will definitely be there—he's the biggest gossip in our year. And Sarah McKenzie always live-tweets social events." Riley turns onto Jason's street, which is already lined with cars. "By tomorrow morning, everyone will know that Bella Lawson is dating Ryan O'Sullivan."
"That's the plan." I check my reflection in the passenger mirror one more time, wondering why I feel like I'm about to walk into battle instead of a casual house party.
Jason's house is one of those converted craftsman homes that's been split into apartments, with a backyard that's perfect for parties and neighbors who've long since given up calling in noise complaints.
Music spills out onto the street, and I can see people scattered across the front porch with red Solo cups and the kind of relaxed confidence that comes from being three beers into a Friday night.
"There's Tanner," Riley says, nodding toward a group near the front door.
I spot him immediately—tall, clean-cut, wearing a button-down shirt. He's talking to the same blonde pre-med student from the coffee shop, gesturing with the kind of animated enthusiasm that suggests he's either really into the conversation or really into her.
"Okay," I breathe. "Time for the performance of my life."
"You've got this." Riley squeezes my hand. "And if you don't, I'll create a distraction involving Jason's beer pong table and someone's dignity."
We're halfway up the front walkway when I hear my name being called.
I turn around to see Ryan jogging toward us from the street, and I have to stop myself from staring.
He's traded his usual hockey jersey for dark jeans and a gray henley that clings to his shoulders in ways that should probably be illegal.
His hair is still slightly damp from what I assume was a post-practice shower, and he's carrying a six-pack of craft beer like an offering to the party gods.
"Sorry I'm late," he says when he reaches us, slightly out of breath. "Coach kept us longer than expected." His eyes do a quick sweep over my outfit, and something warm flickers across his expression. "You look beautiful."
The compliment catches me off guard, partly because of how sincere he sounds. This is supposed to be performance art, but the way Ryan looks at me feels anything but fake.
"Thank you," I manage. "You clean up pretty well yourself."
Riley clears her throat loudly. "As touching as this reunion is, we should probably get inside before all the good gossip spots are taken."
Ryan falls into step beside me as we walk toward the house, and I'm hyperaware of every detail—the way he smells like soap, how he unconsciously adjusts his pace to match mine, the casual way he rests his hand on the small of my back as we navigate through the crowd on the porch.
"You okay?" he asks quietly, leaning down so only I can hear him over the music.
"Just nervous," I admit. "I've never done anything like this before."
"Fake dated someone?"
"Dated anyone in front of people who matter."
Ryan stops walking and turns to face me, his hand still warm against my back. "Hey. Look at me."
I do, and immediately regret it. His green eyes are serious and focused entirely on me, like the rest of the party has faded into background noise.
"We're going to be fine," he says. "Just be yourself, and I'll handle the rest."
"What if being myself isn't enough?"
"Trust me," Ryan says, and the confidence in his voice makes me want to believe him. "It's more than enough."
Before I can respond, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. It's sweet and casual and exactly the kind of thing a boyfriend would do, but it sends warmth cascading through my entire body.
"Ready?" he asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and let him guide me through the front door.
Jason's house is packed with the usual mix of ECU students—hockey players clustered around the kitchen island, business majors holding court in the living room, and various combinations of people who are either old friends or new hookups.
The music is loud enough to require shouting but not so loud that actual conversation is impossible.
Jason appears at my elbow with the kind of enthusiasm that suggests he's already several drinks ahead of everyone else. "You made it! And you brought—" His eyes widen as he takes in Ryan standing next to me. "Holy shit. Ryan O'Sullivan."
"Hey, Jason." Ryan shakes his hand with the easy confidence of someone who's used to being recognized. "Thanks for having us."
"Us?" Jason looks between Ryan and me like he's trying to solve a particularly complicated math problem. "You two are—"
"Together," Ryan says smoothly, sliding his arm around my waist. "Bella's been keeping me in line academically."
Jason's expression suggests that this is the most interesting thing that's happened at one of his parties in months. "No kidding. Good for you, man."
"Don't I know it," Ryan says, and the pride in his voice makes my chest do something fluttery and warm.
We make our way through the party, and I watch Ryan work the room with the kind of social ease that I've always envied.
He knows everyone—or at least, everyone knows him—and he has this way of making every conversation feel important and personal.
But he never lets go of me. His hand stays at my waist, or on my back, or intertwined with mine, creating this constant connection that makes my skin tingle.
"This is weird," I murmur to him during a brief lull in conversation.
"Bad weird or good weird?"
"I don't know yet."
Ryan chuckles. "Fair enough. Want a drink?"
He guides me toward the kitchen, where someone has set up an impressive array of alcohol options. As Ryan pours me a glass of wine, I catch sight of Tanner across the room. He's still talking to the blonde pre-med student, but his attention keeps drifting in our direction.
"He's watching," I tell Ryan quietly.
"Good." Ryan hands me my wine and raises his beer in a mock toast. "To economics and fake dating."
"To the most complicated tutorial of my life," I reply, clinking my glass against his bottle.
We're interrupted by a group of Ryan's teammates, who descend upon us like a pack of very large, very drunk partiers.
I recognize a few of them from campus—Jake Morrison, the goalie who's somehow managing a double major in engineering and partying; Alex Chen, who's rumored to have slept with half the sorority system; and Tommy Rodriguez, who looks like he should be modeling for Abercrombie instead of checking people into the boards.
"O'Sullivan!" Jake throws an arm around Ryan's shoulders. "Who's the beautiful woman, and why haven't we met her before?"
"Guys, this is Bella." Ryan's hand finds mine again, fingers intertwining like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Bella, these are some of the idiots I play hockey with."
"We prefer 'athletic scholars,'" Tommy says with a grin. "Bella, you're the one who's been tutoring our fearless leader, right?"
"Among other things," Ryan says, and there's something in his tone that makes all three of his teammates exchange looks.
"Other things?" Alex raises an eyebrow. "Do tell."
"Gentlemen," Ryan says firmly, "some things are private."
The implication hangs in the air, and I feel heat creep up my neck. Ryan's teammates are looking at us like they're watching the opening credits of their favorite movie, and I realize that everyone at this party is going to assume we're sleeping together.
Which is fine. That's the point of this whole exercise. But the way Ryan's thumb traces small circles on the back of my hand makes me wonder what it would be like if it were true.
"We're going to go find some food," Ryan announces, apparently sensing my discomfort. "Try not to embarrass the team while we're gone."
He leads me away from his teammates and toward a quieter corner of the living room, where someone has set up a small buffet table. But before we can get there, Tanner Williams steps directly into our path.
"Bella," he says, and his smile is perfectly polite and completely unreadable. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"Hey, Tanner." I'm proud of how steady my voice sounds. "How are you?"
"Good. Really good." His eyes flick to Ryan, and I see something that might be curiosity or surprise. "I don't think we've met. Tanner Williams."
"Ryan O'Sullivan." Ryan shakes Tanner's offered hand, and I swear I can see them both squeezing a little harder than necessary. "Nice to meet you."
"Ryan plays hockey for ECU," I explain, though I'm pretty sure Tanner already knows exactly who Ryan is.
"Right. The captain, if I'm not mistaken." Tanner's smile doesn't waver, but there's something assessing in his expression. "Bella and I studied together last semester. She's incredibly dedicated."
"She is," Ryan agrees, his arm tightening slightly around my waist. "Among other things."
There it is again—that implication that we're more than just study partners. Tanner catches it too, because his eyebrows raise slightly.
"Well," Tanner says after a moment that stretches just a little too long, "I should let you two get back to your evening. Bella, maybe we can catch up soon. Compare notes on our internship applications."
"Sure," I say, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm agreeing to.
Tanner nods at both of us and disappears back into the crowd, leaving Ryan and me standing alone in the middle of the party.
"That went well," Ryan says.
"Did it? I couldn't tell if he was being polite or territorial."
"Both, probably." Ryan studies my face. "How do you feel?"
I consider the question. Tanner noticed me—really noticed me—for the first time since I've known him. But instead of feeling triumphant, I feel... confused. Because standing here with Ryan's arm around me, watching Tanner walk away, all I can think about is how right this feels.
How right Ryan feels.
"Complicated," I admit.
Ryan nods like he understands exactly what I mean. "Want to get some air?"
We make our way to the backyard, where the party has spilled out onto a wooden deck strung with string lights. It's quieter here, and I can actually hear myself think for the first time since we arrived.
"Thank you," I tell Ryan as we lean against the deck railing. "For all of this. You're really good at the boyfriend thing."
"Maybe I have good motivation," he says quietly.
I look at him, trying to read his expression in the dim light. "Ryan—"
"I know what this is," he says quickly. "I know what we agreed to. But I want you to know that none of this feels fake to me."
My heart does something acrobatic in my chest. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that maybe we should consider the possibility that this arrangement is working a little too well."
Before I can respond, the back door opens and a group of people spills onto the deck, laughing loudly about something that happened inside. The moment breaks, and Ryan takes a step back.
"We should probably get back to the party," he says. "Make sure we've been seen enough to make this convincing."
I nod, even though the last thing I want to do is go back inside and pretend that this conversation didn't just turn my entire world upside down.
Because Ryan O'Sullivan just told me that our fake relationship doesn't feel fake anymore.
And the terrifying part is that I think I feel exactly the same way.