Chapter 5 Emily
EMILY
Later that night, Jason flipped the sign to ‘Closed’ and locked the door. The bolt clicked loud enough to make me look up. It sounded final. Dramatic, even. The kind of click that meant a conversation was about to happen, whether anyone felt prepared or not.
I stood by the counter with my notebook pressed to my chest like it might save my life.
“This feels secretive,” I said, scanning the empty diner. “Isn’t this how people get murdered in small towns?”
Jason laughed and nodded toward the booth by the window. “You still sit on the inside?”
I paused. I hated that he remembered. “Old habits.”
We slid into the booth without talking. Same cracked leather. Same chipped Formica. The table still had the faded ink doodle near the edge. Mine, most likely. I had once decided the syrup dispensers looked lonely and gave them stick figure friends. I never said I was well-adjusted.
Jason cleared his throat like he was about to read a legal disclaimer. “Okay. Fake relationship logistics.”
I flipped open my notebook. “I remember your aunt. She won’t be easy to fool.”
He grinned. “Remember the time we told her the milkshake machine broke because of a power outage?”
I rolled my eyes. “And she walked straight to the back, flipped the switch, and fixed it in ten seconds.”
“She gave me dish duty for a week,” Jason said.
“She said, ‘If you’re going to lie to me, at least do it with some flair.’”
I smiled. “Then we’d better make this good.”
He tapped his pen on the table. “Right. So timeline. How long have we been together?”
“A month.”
“Why?”
“Long enough to feel real. Short enough that no one asks why it never came up at Thanksgiving.”
He nodded and wrote. “And we reconnected when.”
“Two months ago.” I underlined it. Commitment matters.
He rubbed his jaw. “We could say online. Safe. Dull.”
I stared at him. “That is tragic.”
He smiled. “Farmers market.”
“Better.” I started writing. “You knocked over a basket of apples. You helped me pick them up. Our hands touched. Someone’s tote bag played acoustic guitar music.”
He raised a brow. “You came prepared.”
“I have had time.”
He leaned back. “Aunt Ophelia hates sloppy stories.”
“Which is why this is clean,” I said. “High school sweethearts. Reconnected when I moved home. Truth with a costume.”
“Fewer lies.”
“Fewer funerals.”
We leaned over the table, coffee cups half empty, pens clicking. The diner sat quiet around us. Light from the windows softened everything.
Jason looked up. “Pet names.”
I braced. “I regret agreeing to this already.”
“Boo Boo.”
“I will fake my own death.”
“Honey.”
“No.”
“Babe.”
“I will move again.”
He smiled like a man with nothing to lose. “Wolfie.”
I pointed my pen at him. “Careful.”
“Snuggle-bear.”
“No.”
We stopped and stared at each other.
“No,” we said together.
The laugh came out before I could stop it. It landed between us and stayed. It felt easy. Familiar. Dangerous in a quiet way.
Jason cleared his throat. “So. Pet names are out.”
“A gift to everyone.”
I turned another page in my notebook. My pen tapped twice.
“There is one more thing,” I said.
Jason’s shoulders lifted. “I do not like that pause.”
“She will expect us to kiss.”
My voice stayed calm. My face betrayed me. Heat climbed my cheeks like it had plans.
“Of course she will,” he said.
His jaw tightened.
Silence filled the booth. The diner hummed. The sugar dispenser stared back at him.
“We should practice,” I said.
He looked at me. “You want to practice kissing.”
“For realism,” I said. “For your aunt.”
We stared at each other.
“It is not like we have never done it,” I said.
He slid out of the booth and held out his hand. “Okay. Practice. Professional.”
“Professional,” I said, taking his hand.
My fingers felt cool. His felt like he had been holding a coffee pot all day.
The space shrank. The windows threw light across his face. I caught the scent of his soap. Clean. Familiar. Unhelpful.
“Simple kiss,” I said. “Nothing dramatic.”
“Agreed.”
He leaned in and waited. I stayed.
Our lips met. Careful. Measured. A checkbox kiss.
The box refused to stay checked.
His hand found my waist. Mine gripped his shirt. Breath caught. The years we spent pretending we were fine collapsed into a second.
We pulled apart at the same time.
“Well,” I said.
He took a step back. “That was.”
“Unnecessary,” I said. “We do not need to repeat that.”
“No.”
We stayed where we were.
I reached for my notebook and hit the salt shaker instead. It rolled and knocked the table. I ignored it.
“Kissing reads as believable,” I said, writing without looking.
“Very.”
I looked up. His face held caution and something worse.
“This is a terrible idea,” I said.
“I agree.”
We still did not move.
“We are only doing this to save the diner,” I said. “That is it.”
He nodded. “Just a favor. So everyone keeps working.”
“Exactly.”
I snapped my notebook shut.
“Anyway,” I said. Loud. Cheerful. A master of grace. “I have a couple of ideas. Marketing ideas. For the diner.”
Jason blinked. “Of course you do.”
“Marketing,” I said. “You know. The thing you hired me for.”
He smiled like I had just reminded him of his own name. “Right. That thing.”
“Just some thoughts,” I said. “For this place. Real ones. If you want to hear them.”
“I do,” he said. “How about tomorrow night, same time?”
“That works,” I said. “I might bring mood boards.”
“Of course you will.”
“Maybe two,” I said. “Or five. I spiral.”
He laughed. The sound felt safe again.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
“Tomorrow,” I echoed.