Except, of course…we are. She doesn’t know about the things that happen between us—late nights, pillow talk, endless texts, and all those tasty smoothies.
But those late nights and early mornings aren’t turning into anything permanent. They simply can’t.
“Well, that was brilliant of you,” I say, forcing myself to focus on the fakeness, not the feelings.
“Thank you. I thought it was too. And send me some pictures of the cabinets when they go in,” she says.
“I will,” I say, wrapping up our conversation right before I reach High Kick Coffee. Stopping outside a cute tchotchke shop, I pause before I go into the café. Something about that interaction has thrown me off a little, like I’ve had too much caffeine and it’s making me jittery.
Am I afraid of disappointing her? That can’t be it. This thing with Ford is like reverse fake dating. We’re not faking it for his family—his family knows we’re faking it.
I’m not sure why my stomach feels a little twisty. Maybe because she said she knew I had a crush? Doesthat mean she thinks this will turn into something more? That she…wants it to?
My heart sits up, dares to hope. My mind races ahead to…days and nights spilling into weeks and months.
But that’s foolish. All the roadblocks to our romance still exist. Even if we weren’t neighbors, even when we stop working together, we’ll still be a man and a woman who have dreams other than love.
I push open the door of the coffee shop and leave thoughts of fake and real dating behind when I head inside. I’m the first one here, but that’s no surprise to me. Everyone expects me to be late. People don’t expect a creative type to be on time. But I didn’t launch my own business—or my dog’s—because I’m a mess. I launched themin spiteof my messiness.
I sail over to the counter and order a vanilla latte.
“You’re going to want a toffee brownie too,” says Birdie, the owner of the shop.
“Twist my arm, why don’t you?” I say.
She winks, a smile coasting across her red-lipsticked mouth. “What’s the story with Sexy Reno Guy?”
My jaw drops. “You listen to?—?”
She scoffs. “My grandson told me about it,” she says, and I’m guessing she means Miles, who plays on the Sea Dogs with Ford. He’s also Leighton’s boyfriend. “Couldn’t resist. It’s too cute when you narrate your dates.”
Fakedates, my head autocorrects her. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” I say—and maybe I need to check my numbers again.
Is it really seven thousand forty-five?
After she makes the drink, I grab a table to wait for my friends. Mabel’s coming, along with Sabrina and Leightontoo. As I take a sip, I toggle over to the podcast dashboard—then nearly spit out my drink.
We’re at eight thousand six hundred forty-four now. “Holy smokes,” I say.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Leighton asks.
I look up to see my friend with the pretty brunette hair and tattoos of flowers snaking down the fair skin of her arm. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“That’s usually my line,” she says wryly.
“True,” I say with a smile. She wears hearing aids, and I love that she’s able to make light of it while living her best life too.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, meeting my gaze as she settles across from me.
“My podcast. It’s over eight thousand,” I say in a whisper—like if I say it too loud, it’ll break this…luck.
“That’s amazing,” Leighton says brightly.
“I know, but…” I say, but I also feel…like I’m walking a tightrope. The show is clicking, business is steady, and the Sausalito home is coming together. But I’m also balancing that all while faking a romance with a client. A romance the client’s mother engineered. My head’s spinning as I try to keep track of what’s fake and what’s real. I scrunch my brow, trying to put words to this antsy feeling.
“But what?” Leighton asks with some concern written in her tone.
I flash back over the last few nights with Ford, my chest warming as I think about the texts we send, the chats we’ve had, the way he invited himself to spend the night after we collapsed onto my bed in a hot, sweaty mess. He’s such an interesting mix of intense and tender. He’s strong, almost stoic, but then he has this soft side that he shows me—the Ford who kisses his dog’s snout, whocuddles under the covers, who makes me pineapple smoothies in the morning. I’m about to tell Leighton the truth—that something’s shifting, tilting—when the bell chimes and in bursts a flurry of noise, fabulous hair, and bright voices.
