Chapter 1 #2
“I’m glad we were there,” I say. I’m not sure if I’m talking about Olivia or a young Jake.
“Me too.”
The moment stretches between us—not romantic, but familiar. Every time I get ready to resent Jake properly, he goes and reminds me why I can’t. Leaving him alone to deal with the fallout has never really been an option.
“You know, you were in the bathroom so long, I almost hoped you fell in,” Jake mutters, trying to lighten the mood.
“Only in my dreams,” I say with a sharp smile.
He laughs, like this is all banter instead of the ghost of a fight that’s been raging since before I could walk. But there’s something deeper behind his eyes. A fear that he tries to keep buried but that resurfaces when he feels insecure.
I could say something sweet or something salty, and it would get the same defensive reaction, so I go a different route. “Did you see the latest video Dallas and Marisol posted of baby Mateo?”
A real smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t even like babies, and I’m obsessed with that kid. All he does is stare and drool. Why can’t I stop looking?”
“I know. I swear, I can smell him through the camera.”
“Man, the way his tiny hand curled around my finger that first time? I was a goner.” He doesn’t make eye contact with me, but he doesn’t stab his Baked Alaska with the same gusto he used on his steak, either.
“Do you want kids someday?” I ask.
“Are you offering to be my baby mama? That’ll get the press talking.”
I scoff and let out a fake laugh. “You’re so funny.”
Jake looks at me like I’ve been body-snatched. And then he brings his sparkling water up to his lips and chuckles. “You are way too good at pretending, Scot. Half the time, I’m worried you’re falling in love with me.”
I make myself giggle for the onlookers—a sound so unnatural, I wonder how Jake’s ears aren’t bleeding. “I’d rather fall in love with a starving tiger.”
He laughs again, louder. “You’re so sour, he’d spit you out.” Then his eyes flit away from me, and mine follow. A woman at another table has her phone on us, obviously filming. I brace myself, knowing what’s coming. “Pucker up, Buttercup,” he says.
I suppress a groan as Jake leans across the table.
Romance books are obsessed with fake dating. They’ll tell you the fighting is better than flirting. Fake kisses hide real feelings. The brother’s best friend is always “The One.”
Lies. All of them.
Fake dating only works if you’d actually date in real life. Jake and I barely tolerate each other.
Not in a delicious ooh, look at that sexual tension way.
In a if I have to watch him chew with his mouth open one more time, I will fake my own death to escape this arrangement way.
When it comes down to it, there’s only one reason I’m fake dating Jake: the dude is family. He’s been like a brother to me since before I can remember.
Which is why having to kiss him is so utterly nauseating.
I tip my head up.
He smooshes his mouth against my mouth, his lips wet and cold from the Baked Alaska and his breath lukewarm, and all I can think of is the time in college my roommate dared me to kiss a dead fish from the frozen aisle at Kroger. Except that was better.
He pulls back and gives me a smile faker than our feelings for each other.
“That is never going to feel good, is it?” he asks, taking a long drink of water, like he’s trying to wash the taste of me out of his mouth.
The woman watching us has set down her phone, so I dab a napkin against my lips before I shudder. “Never ever.”
We suffer through the rest of dessert, and my skin only crawls a little when he puts his hand on my lower back to guide me out of the restaurant.
Outside, the night air hits my face, cold and sharp after the restaurant’s warmth.
Waiting at the curb, we see the canary-yellow Lamborghini Aventador Jake’s driving tonight, the streetlights gleaming off its hood like liquid gold.
And we see the press. Camera flashes pop like strobe lights, and the rapid-fire click of shutters mingles with shouted questions. My hand instinctively tightens on Jake’s arm.
It’s only a few photographers—not nearly as many as we faced in Philly over Christmas break when we were “new”—but it’s still enough.
They’re calling out questions, but we ignore them.
I put my hand on Jake’s chest and lean close.
“Make sure to open my door this time,” I whisper, hoping I look affectionate instead of aggravated.
He didn’t open my car door on our last “date,” and three different tabloids reported it as “trouble in paradise.”
Gross.
We need them printing nothing but the best, which means I’m constantly giving Jake lessons on how to treat a woman. Always open her door, pull out her chair, and remember—for the love of all that is holy—to stop peeling out after you drop her off.
To name a few.
Jake is a reluctant student, but he’ll get there.
He has to.
We’re only dating until Spring Training. When he reports to the Firebirds’ stadium in Arizona in a few weeks—back in the team’s good graces (and hopefully with an endorsement or two)—I plan to be a footnote in his history.
Jake opens my door, and I slip onto one of the smooth leather seats.
Every vehicle Jake drives is luxurious, but there’s something about being driven around in a Lamborghini that fulfills a childhood fantasy.
Granted, that was probably only a fantasy because I grew up with two older brothers. And a Jake.
He’s about to close my door when one of the photographers asks out a question Jake deigns to answer.
“Jake! How long have you known you had feelings for Scottie?”
Jake looks down at me, and for a split second, I see the guy who just helped a stranger. “Officially? Not long enough. I’ve known Scottie since we were kids. I was an idiot not to realize what was right in front of me.”
“What made you finally make a move?”
Jake’s thumb brushes against the door frame. “Life’s short. When you know, you know.”
“She’s your best friend’s younger sister. That’s gotta be complicated for a guy who burns every relationship he’s ever had. Aren’t you afraid of screwing up and losing the whole family?”
A stab of offense drives me out of the car and to my feet. I grab Jake’s arm, and turn on the man, barely containing my anger. “We know Jake in a way the press and fans never will. Nothing could make him lose my family. No matter what happens with us, he’s an honorary Quinn. Forever.”
The reporter chuckles. “If you say so.”
I want to throw his camera to the ground, but instead, I turn and put a hand on Jake’s cheek, my eyes burning. “Come on, Jake. Take me home.”
Jake helps me in the car, closes the door, and I hear him say, “That’s all for tonight, fellas. We’re calling it.”
A moment later, Jake gets into the car and peels out. Normally, I’d chide him for it.
But after that reporter’s question, I’m too firmly Team Jake to mind.
After all my family has been through with him, after all the ways we’ve sacrificed to make sure he felt at home, it’s unconscionable for that two-bit hack to imply that something could jeopardize Jake’s standing with the only real family he’s ever had.
Jake turns on his favorite sports podcast—The Long Game with former NFL superstar Sonny Luciano—and we listen in silence.
Outside the window, Charleston’s historic homes blur into streaks of light as Jake accelerates onto the highway.
Sonny’s voice fills the car, too hopeful for the weight settling in my chest.
Tonight’s guest is a former linebacker who started a foundation for kids in foster care. The conversation is about chosen family, about the kind of trauma that doesn’t heal with time, the kind of pain kids just get better at hiding.
“You know what messes with these kids the most?” the guest says. “It’s not always the big stuff. It’s knowing that if they disappeared tomorrow, no one would notice for days. No one would call to check in. That’s the kind of wound that never really heals—you just learn how to cover it.”
For a second, I think about what Jake did back at the restaurant—how fast he moved, how he didn’t question a thing.
He just … helped. Like it’s in him.
Sometimes I wonder if he knows it’s there at all.
His jaw tenses, and he switches to music, and I’m as relieved as he is when the darker thoughts are drowned out.
Some people disappear and a search party goes out to find them.
Others disappear even when everyone’s watching.
The drive from Charleston to Mullet Ridge is two hours, so by the time we get to my place, he’s gone through Guns N’ Roses’ greatest hits and has moved on to AC/DC. Meanwhile, I’ve watched way too many of Lucas’s videos while I should have been reading.
“All right,” Jake says when he parks in front of my condo. “I’ll be back out next weekend. Agent says we need to milk this every chance we get.”
“Are you sure you need to be back that soon?” I ask.
“Don’t sound so excited,” Jake says.
“How could I not be excited?” I ask, unbuckling. “I’m dating my brother’s best friend.”
He chuckles. “Living the dream. Later, kid.”
“Take it easy,” I say.
I’m about to get out of the car when I spot a man walking his dog and ogling Jake’s ride. I sigh. “Someone’s watching.”
Jake curses under his breath and gets out of the car with a huff.
Five seconds later, he’s walking me to the door with his beefy hand in mine.
The man with his dog is walking way too slowly, obviously trying to get a view of the superstar who’d be driving an expensive Italian sports car in Mullet Ridge, South Carolina, of all places.
“I’m getting tired of kissing you,” Jake says. “No offense.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I assure him. At my door, we give the obligatory kiss that we’ve mastered, just in case the guy decides to take to social media with his Jake Rodgers sighting.
When we’re done, I go inside and immediately take off my glasses with the relief most women feel when they take off their highest pair of heels.
My phone is in my hand before I’ve even set my bag down, my thumb hovering over the saved video like it’s a dare.
I put it face down on the counter.
“Soon,” I whisper to myself. “Soon this will all be over, and then I can start my actual life.”
A text comes in from Kayla.
Kayla
Hey, let’s talk tomorrow. Just had a big call with Doug and want to run something by you.
Scottie
That sounds ominous.
Kayla
Oh, stop. It’s all good. Just not worth bothering you when you should be relaxing.
Scottie
YOU should be relaxing, Baby Mama.
Kayla
Girl, don’t you even try to caretake me.
You’re off the clock.
Watch a movie where Tom Cruise blows something up.
Scottie
You know me too well.
I stare at my texts, itching to open another thread, one that hasn’t been active in over a month …
I put my phone down and do exactly what Kayla suggests, numbing myself until the itch is tolerable.