Chapter 6 Brody #4
I stare at him for a beat. “Yeah,” I say. “That works.”
The air between us feels thick, but that’s probably just the humidity from the espresso machine. I clear my throat. “Um, right. So, two weeks ago. Coffee shop collision. We recognized each other immediately.”
“And it was like we never lost touch.” The corner of Brody’s mouth tilts upward, sending warm fuzzies all through me.
“It’s the classic event-planner-meets-hockey-player love story,” he says.
I chuckle. “I’m not sure anyone would call that a classic.”
Brody scoffs. “Sure it is! It’s the whole ‘They come from different worlds but—’”
“‘—make each other laugh.’” I shrug, smiling into my drink. “Yeah, okay.”
The sound of grinding coffee fills the air, and Brody leans back, draping an arm over the back of the booth. “We should probably know basic stuff about each other. Your family’s going to ask questions. Speaking of, who am I meeting today?”
“My parents, my brother Devon and his wife Melissa, and of course, Maya and Derek and a flock of their friends and extended family.”
“I might need a list.”
“And who should I know on your side?”
His face changes, just like that—goes a little white, and he swallows. “No one.”
I raise an eyebrow. He looks away.
And my chest sort of caves in, remembering his story about his father.
Okay then.
He looks back at me. “Favorite color?”
“What?”
“Favorite color. Come on, that’s kind of basic couple knowledge. Isn’t it?”
“Oh. Um—” Why is this harder than coordinating our fake backstory? “Green. Forest green. Sunlight-on-the-leaves-in-summer green. Christmas green. Not lime green. Or Sage. Or that icky brownish green.” For the love, Chloe, stop using the word green.
Brody quirks a brow, but he types it into his phone. “Favorite food?”
“Pasta. Any kind. But especially carbonara. I’m very boring and predictable.” I pull up my notes. “You?”
“Blue. Steak.”
“That’s very…aggressively on-brand for a hockey player.”
He lifts a shoulder, but his smile is cute.
We keep going.
Guilty pleasure TV. (His: cooking competitions—I can’t help but love that for him. Mine: K-dramas. Don’t judge.)
Dream vacation. (His: somewhere remote with good fishing where people leave him alone. Mine: anywhere with old bookstores and questionable Wi-Fi. And now I’m envisioning us honeymooning in some small town in the Land O’Lakes…Bad. Bad Chloe.)
Biggest pet peeve. (His: people who don’t rerack gym weights. Mine: people who dog-ear library books.)
With each answer, I learn something new about him. He’s funny—dry humor that catches me off guard in a good way. Thoughtful—listens when I talk.
It’s not long before we’ve melted from business conversation into honest-to-goodness get-to-know-you-because-I-could-love-you conversation, and it’s like I’m standing outside my body, screaming at myself not to get attached. It’s not real!
We’re not friends. We’re not dating. We’re business associates who happen to be coordinating a very elaborate lie for money.
Professional. This is professional.
Even if it doesn’t feel that way.
I check my phone. 11:45 a.m. Where did the time go? “We need to get going. I still have flowers to pick up and the room to decorate.”
Brody stands, offering his hand like we’re in a Jane Austen novel.
I take it, and he helps me up, pulling me close. Close enough that I can see green flecks in his gray-blue eyes.
“Ready?” he asks.
For what? The flowers? The party? Pretending to be in love with him when I’m starting to suspect the pretending part is going to be way harder than the being-in-love part, which is absolutely not what I signed up for and is definitely going to end badly for me specifically?
“Ready.”
After a quick stop at the florist—and an awkward conversation about how the flowers aren’t for our party, where I blush so bad that I worry I might have second-degree burns—we pull up to Pinstripes.
The building is gorgeous—an upscale bowling alley slash venue. Polished wood floors, sophisticated lighting. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a courtyard that’s currently covered in snow.
The bowling lanes are pristine. The dining area is set up with round tables draped in white linens. The event space is empty when we arrive—just us and the venue coordinator, a woman named Lisa, who shows us where to set up.
“Guests arrive at three?” Lisa confirms, checking her tablet.
“That’s correct,” I reply, dropping a box of decorations on the nearest table. “Oh, and I spoke to the caterers yesterday. They’ll be arriving at two instead of two thirty. Will you be ready for them?”
Lisa notes it down with a quick nod. “We’ll be ready. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thank you, Lisa!”
Brody and I get to work. He carries in the flower arrangements while I start on the photo backdrop—a full greenery wall made of 20 x 20-inch boxwood panels framed with silk flowers to match the real ones on the cocktail tables, and a custom neon sign that reads She said yes!
“Where do you want these?” he asks, gesturing to a particularly large centerpiece that looks like it weighs more than me.
“Set it down beside the welcome sign, I think.”
We work in silence for a while. It’s actually kind of nice. Comfortable. Like we’ve done this before, even though we absolutely haven’t.
Arranging flowers. Hanging backdrops. Setting up the small gift table near the entrance. Putting out decorative dessert trays for when the caterers arrive.
Brody sheds his jacket, rolls up his sleeves.
I try very hard not to notice his forearms.
I fail spectacularly.
“Chloe?”
I jerk my attention back to his face like I’ve been caught stealing. “What?”
He’s grinning. Like, knows-exactly-what-I-was-doing grinning. Busted. “I asked where you want this banner.”
“Oh. Um—” Think. Words. Use them. String them together in a coherent fashion. “Above the gift table?”
“You okay?”
“Fine. Just…concentrating.”
“On my arms?”
My face goes nuclear. Like Chernobyl levels of meltdown. “I was not—you’re very—I mean—shut up.”
He laughs. The sound reminds me of that ocean color in his eyes, like waves crashing on the shore. Loud, exciting. I need to hear it again.
“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“You’re flustered.”
I spin back to my work, focusing very hard on the precise placement of the dessert trays. “Are you going to hang that banner or just stand there being smug about your stupid attractive forearms?”
“I can do both.” He gets the ladder from the storage closet Lisa pointed out and sets it up.
I watch him climb up, reach for the banner, secure it to the wall.
“Toss me the other end?” he calls down.
“I got it.” I grab the banner’s opposite corner and climb on a chair, because I’m helpful like that.
“Careful,” Brody warns.
“I’ve got it.”
Deep down, I’ll admit that I should have known I don’t “got it.” But in this moment, all I’m thinking is Look at us, we’re so cute working together.
I reach too far, trying to line up the banner with the hook. The chair wobbles, and I have a brief moment of clarity where I think This is it. This is how I die.
And suddenly, I’m in Brody’s arms.
We’re pressed together. My hands on his shoulders. His arms around my waist. His face inches from mine.
Neither of us moves.
“You keep doing that,” I hear myself say.
Brody frowns. “Doing what?”
“Swooping in to save me.”
He chuckles, but his voice is rough, deeper than normal. “Anytime.”
We should pull apart. Step back.
We don’t.
Music starts playing overhead. The venue’s sound system—Lisa must be testing it.
And I know this song.
Oh no.
Classical guitar. Soft and romantic and achingly familiar.
Barcelona. The outdoor café. Dancing under the twinkling lights before he disappeared and broke my heart.
Brody’s eyes widen. He knows it too.
We stand there, frozen, while the music swells around us, my heart thundering in my chest as his grip on my waist tightens slightly.
I should say something. Acknowledge it. Ask him if he remembers or if I’m just being delusional and reading meaning into random coincidences.
But Jessa negotiated, and I’m bound by the whole “no reliving Barcelona” rule.
The song ends. A different one starts—something upbeat and completely wrong for whatever just happened.
The spell breaks.
Brody clears his throat, steps back with the kind of careful distance that feels deliberate.
I step back too, tucking my hair behind my ears with trembling hands, and glance at my watch. Shoot. It’s almost two thirty. “I should change,” I say, breaking the moment. “Party starts soon.” I grab my bag and head to the bathroom, trying not to run like I’m fleeing a crime scene.
A few minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom, brushing out the silhouette of my black sheath dress.
And freeze.
Maya and Derek are standing near the entrance, talking to Brody.
They’re early.
Of course they’re early.
Maya sees me first. “Chloe! Oh my goodness, the place looks beautiful!”
Okay, I’ll take that.
“I can’t believe you and Brody did all this!” Maya gestures around like we just built the Taj Mahal rather than arranging a few flowers and hanging things up. “It’s gorgeous.”
“It was a team effort,” I say, which is technically true.
Brody appears at my side. His hand finds the small of my back automatically, like we’ve practiced this—which we haven’t, but apparently our bodies have decided to coordinate without consulting our brains.
“Your sister’s very talented,” he says to Maya with the kind of sincere smile that could sell ice to Minnesotans in January. He’s very good at lying.
I need to remember that.
“I know! She’s the best.” Maya beams at me.
Really? Really?
But wait. Her expression shifts, goes curious. “So. I’ve been dying to ask—how exactly did you two meet?”
Here we go.
Game time.