Chapter 7 #2
“You’ll be fine,” I manage, though my voice feels tight. Then, like an idiot, I blurt, “You don’t have a boyfriend, do you?”
She jerks back, scandalized. “What? No!”
“Right.” I drag my hand through my hair. Great. Keep digging, Alex. “I should’ve asked earlier.”
Her mouth tightens. “If I had a boyfriend, I wouldn’t be here.” Her words are clipped, and it’s clear I’ve insulted her.
You’d think I have a shovel in my pocket the way I keep digging myself deeper.
“Sorry, Finley. I didn’t mean to insult your character. I’m just…nervous.” I regret the words as soon as they’re out. I’m supposed to be strong, confident—and I usually am that guy. Which is why this feels so unnerving. I don’t recognize myself right now.
Her expression softens. “You’re nervous too?”
It’s too late to deny it now. “Yeah, but not because I think you’ll screw up.
” I stop there because there’s no way in hell I can admit the real reason.
I’m too aware of her—the curve of her smile, the way her hair spills around her shoulder like it was made to, the faint scent of vanilla and coffee that clings to her.
It’s distracting. Dangerous. It’s throwing me off balance.
I knew she was cute and charming before I invited her to come with me—hell, it’s part of the reason I invited her. Then what is going on with my feelings now?
I heft the suitcase into my left hand, partly because it’s heavy, partly so I can rest my right palm against the small of her back as I guide her to the door. The move feels automatic, natural. Too natural.
I’m supposed to sell the part. Just a boyfriend gesture, right? But the warmth of her through her sweater makes me wonder if I’m the one falling for it.
We reach my parents’ old Jeep Wagoneer and her face lights up. “I thought these only existed in movies. This is amazing!”
The bite of the cold air helps clear my head which lets me sound normal again.
“You’ll have to tell my dad. He bought this thing new back in ‘85. He swore it could get him anywhere in any weather. My mother tried for years to make him trade it in, and he finally caved a few years back and bought a new car, but my brother Tyler convinced her to keep this one. Mostly after we all begged and Tyler promised to maintain it.”
“He must be handy. Is he a mechanic?”
“He’s an engineer,” I say with a laugh. “Growing up, he tore apart everything he could get his hands on. He drove Mom crazy. She started buying toasters and blenders at garage sales just so he’d leave the working ones alone.”
Finley laughs, the sound carrying into the still night. It’s…nice. Warmer than it should be in this weather. I tell myself that’s all it is—just the sound of home, mixing with the cold air and the season. Nothing more.
I open the back hatch, lift her suitcase inside, then move to the passenger door. I unlock it with the key and hold it open.
“Very old school,” she teases as she slides onto the seat.
“My mother raised me to open car doors.”
She chuckles. “I meant the part where you need a key.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Right. That too.”
I get in and start the engine. Cold air blows out of the vents, and she shivers. I turn the fan down until it warms. “Are you hungry? Mom made a pot of chili, but we can stop somewhere if you want.”
“I can wait.”
I pull out of the lot and head toward Hollybrook. “We should come up with a story of how we met.”
“Good idea,” she says. “Along with a few other things that a couple should know.”
“Yeah,” I say, “So for how we met, I thought we could say we met at a networking event.”
Her shoulders go rigid. “Why not tell them the truth?”
“You think we should tell my family I’m paying you to be my girlfriend?” I ask in disbelief.
“Let’s get one thing clear,” she says, her voice icy. “You’re not paying me to be your girlfriend. You’re making up for my lost wages and for me to get here, but I’m here of my own free will. I’m not some paid escort.”
If I’m paying for her lost wages, isn’t that the same thing as paying her to be my girlfriend? But it’s obviously important to her to think otherwise, and I’m smart enough to let it go. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant.”
“And I’m not stupid. I’m not going to tell them that. But the fact you want to change the location of where we actually met means you’re embarrassed I work at Beans to Go.”
“That’s not it,” I say quickly. “It’s just… my brothers probably won’t believe I’m dating a woman who works in a coffee shop.”
Her eyes narrow, sharp as glass. “Because it means I’m beneath you?” The iciness in her voice makes my gut tighten.
“I didn’t say that,” I shoot back, defensive.
“Then why wouldn’t they believe it?” She pins me with a look that dares me to lie.
I scramble for words that won’t sound worse than the truth. Before I can manage it, she cuts in.
“Because you don’t date women who work in coffee shops,” she says flatly, daring me to deny it.
“It’s just that—”
“Your other girlfriends have all had degrees and careers, not jobs, right?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No,” she shoots back, her gaze unrelenting. “You didn’t have to.”
Her words sting because they’re too close to the truth. Since college, every woman I’ve dated has been some version of polished, ambitious, impressive on paper. Finance, law, PR.
And now I’m sitting next to Finley, who doesn’t fit any of those boxes. The way she’s glaring at me—cheeks flushed, posture rigid—it should make me irritated. Instead, something hot curls low in my gut.
“I’m not sure this is going to work,” she says softly.
Panic spikes in my chest. “Why not? Because we don’t agree on the story of how we met?”
“No,” she says, her voice edged with hurt. “Because you obviously don’t respect me as a person.”
The words knock the breath out of me. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” She turns fully toward me, her eyes sharp. “You just admitted that your brothers would never believe you’d date a woman who works at a coffee shop.”
I clench the wheel, biting back a curse. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I wouldn’t have dated her in real life. But hearing her say it pisses me off, and I don’t know why.
My shoulders square. “It’s a little late to be having second thoughts.”
“You’re right,” she snaps. “You’ve gone to the expense of bringing me here, so I’ll live up to my end of the bargain.”
“Don’t sound so thrilled,” I mutter.
She’s quiet for a moment, then her tone is calmer. Cooler. “In hindsight, we should have worked out the story before we signed the contract.”
The unspoken and I wouldn’t have signed lands heavy between us.
“I’m not going to lie about where we met,” she says firmly. “I’ll let them believe we’ve been dating, but I won’t lie about me or my life. We met at the coffee shop, and if that embarrasses you, then tough. shit.”
Despite myself, my lips twitch. She’s angry and absolutely unyielding—and damn if it isn’t hot.
A woman standing her ground, refusing to let me bulldoze her, refusing to shrink.
I should be pissed. Instead, I can’t stop noticing the fire in her eyes.
And she’s right. She has nothing to be ashamed of. So why the hell should I be?
“You have a point,” I concede, trying to sound cool even as my pulse is hammering. “We need to stick to the truth as much as possible, otherwise it’ll get too complicated.”
Her eyes go wide, incredulous. “That’s what you got out of that?”
“No, it’s just—”
“Forget it,” she cuts me off. “Here’s what we tell them—we met at the coffee shop.
Three months ago, you saw that I was sad and asked if I was okay.
I told you my cat was sick, and you asked if I needed to talk.
So, we met after I got off work—on one of my days off from the hospital.
I told you how scared I was that my cat wouldn’t make it, and you were supportive.
You asked me out again, and the rest is history. ”
If my brothers won’t buy that I’d ask my barista out, they definitely won’t buy me noticing she was sad.
But the kicker? She’s not making this up.
The thing is, I did notice she was off a few months ago.
But I never asked about it. I was too damn self-absorbed to do for her what she once did for me.
I really am an asshole.
“Yeah,” I say, though it comes out distracted, like I’m scrambling to justify why I never asked if she was okay back then. “That works.”
Her eyes narrow. “Does it really?”
I hesitate, then force myself to sound blasé, “My mom and sister will buy it. If my brothers don’t, that’s their problem.” Then, because asking about cats is safer than admitting I’m a coward... “Do you have a cat?”
Her jaw ticks. “Of course I have a cat.”
“And was she really sick?”
“Yes. She nearly died, but she’s back to her same grumpy, hell-raising ways.” We’re quiet for nearly a minute. I keep trying to figure out where this all went wrong, when she asks, her voice less brittle and challenging, “Do you have any pets?”
I bark out a laugh. “I can barely take care of myself, let alone keep another living creature alive.”
The silence between us charges the air, prickling my skin. And I know it’s my fault, and it only makes me more anxious. If she can’t fake liking me, my family will see right through us.
Practicality kicks in.
“Look, I know we signed a contract,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral, reasonable, “but if you want out, I’ll get you the first flight out, but it will have to be tomorrow. I overheard the airport manager tell someone else the flights for tonight are full.”
Her chin lifts. “No,” she says firmly. “We made a deal, and I want to see Hollybrook.” Then her voice softens. “I’ll do my best to pretend I’m into you.”
The words are meant to reassure me, but instead they cut my ego like a knife. I can’t remember the last time I was into a woman who didn’t like me back. Middle school? Maybe this is what I deserve, a kick to my ego. But the sting is sharp—and stupid, because I shouldn’t be into her at all.
For several minutes, the only sound is the steady beat of the windshield wipers, brushing away the lightly falling snow. I feel shitty. How did we start off so great and arrive at her probably wanting to leave within fifteen minutes?
You’re what happened. You acted like an asshole.
I have to fix this, but I’m not sure how.
I glance over at her, and she’s looking out the windows now, but the tension of her face has softened. She’s not glaring at the glass like it wronged her. Her mouth is parted, and her eyes are round with awe.
This is why she’s here. She’s not doing this as a favor to me. She hardly knows me. Sure, I could tell myself that she’s here because I’m generously reimbursing the salary she’s losing by being here, but her expression right now is why she’s really here, and I’m ruining it for her.
My anger bleeds out of me, and something else settles in: responsibility. We have a contract. And while I might be feeling attracted to her, acting on it would be crossing the line. The boundary’s there for a reason, and I need to respect it. And her.
The thing is, I do respect her. I respect the hell out of her. As shitty as her life sounds, she’s one of the most positive, upbeat people I know. Why should it matter where she works?
“Can we start over?” I ask hesitantly.
She stiffens, then lets out a grudging, “Sure.”
It’s not full forgiveness, but it’s an opening, and I’ll take it.
I’d like to patch this up before we get to my parents’ house, but I bite my tongue. Everything I’ve said during this drive has replaced my shovel with a backhoe, and the hole I’ve been digging is halfway to China. The best thing I can do right now is to shut up.
So, I clamp my jaw and make a private vow: I’ll let Finley have her Hollybrook Christmas. I’ll keep my hands—and my feelings—reined in. I’ll be the solid, non-threatening “boyfriend” my family and Finley expect.
That’s what we agreed to, right?