Mel stood near the drinks table in a white sundress with scattered red flowers, curls falling softly over her shoulders as she talked to someone. I definitely wouldn’t lose sight of her by the way that dress fit; someone ought to call a time-out. If there were penalties for looking that good, she’d be in the box. And, no one could accuse me of staring at mygirlfriend.
My brain paused as if I’d missed a line change. I’d seen her plenty of times, but never as mine. Even in pretense, my heart gave a double thump.
She turned, eyes catching mine, and her shoulders eased slightly. She excused herself and weaved past people straight for me.
“Hi,” she said, reaching me.
“Hey. I brought something. Hope that’s okay.” I gave her the wine.
Her lips tugged up. “It’s more than okay. You’re here.”
That made me smile.
“You’re looking around like you expected an RSVP list,” she teased as we moved through the crowd.
“I didn’t expect a full parking lot and an open bar.” Or to feel this ridiculously nervous.
She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Even if they’d been official invites, friends tell friends, extended family showed up, and poof, party explosion.” She bumped her elbow lightly against mine. “And clearly, people brought extra decorations, food, and drinks. Like you.”
I smiled and felt myself relax. Okay, this wasn’t so bad—a crowd of people and a pretty woman pretending to be my date.
When people asked, she introduced me simply—“This is Sean”—skipping the boyfriend title, and I nodded, shook hands, and offered polite answers.
I caught her checking me out more than once. I kinda liked it. Mutual fake-dating appreciation right here.
Sam swooped in with a grin and asked if I wanted something to eat. While we talked, Mel slipped inside to store the wine I brought.
Sam set me up with a plate and a drink, looking every inch the med school grad in her soft blue one-shoulder dress, heels that meant business, and a dark brown ponytail that made her look sharp and pulled together. She ran the half host, half guest-of-honor play like a pro, moving between conversations without dropping the ball.
Halfway through a bite of my chicken skewer, a guest locked me into a hockey conversation, a huge fan who recognized me. I kept it light—the loss against Vegas yesterday sucked, but we were still up 2–1, answered a few questions about playoffs and player fatigue—then excused myself to find Mel.
I followed her footsteps into the house, and someone pointed me down the hallway to where she was.
“This is starting to become a trend,” I said, leaning on the bathroom doorway. She stood in front of the pot with a plunger in her hand. “First Tahoe West men’s restroom, now here.”
“Awesome,” she said. “Still living up to my Bathroom Girl title.”
“Coming soon to a memoir near you,” I replied.
She laughed, flushed the toilet, and it worked. “Yeah! Victory: Mel versus the toilet paper monster.”
“Well done,” I said, impressed, “You’re good at this too?”
She rolled her eyes, washing her hands. “I wear many hats.”
“No doubt.”
She dried her hands, smoothed her dress and stepped out. “Give me a sec, grabbing something from my room.”
“I’ll be in the living room pretending I know someone,” I replied, watching her go. Her dress swayed as she turned, far too pretty for this game tonight.
Back in the living room, I didn’t get far before a woman in a wrap dress caught me mid-step. “Oh, are you from the university?” she asked, her smile warm. “We’re so proud of Sam tonight.”
“Ah. No, I’m a guest, here to celebrate with everyone,” I replied.
A familiar voice cut through the chatter, “I met the Tahoe West head coach.”
I turned to see the same guy who had locked me into hockey stats earlier talking with Mel. She stood, shoulders drawn up, smile pulled thin as if it hurt to hold it.
