She'd just lied to her best friend. She'd just committed to bringing a date she didn't have to a reunion in two days. And then maintaining the charade through two weeks of holiday events so everyone would stop with the commentary about her being perpetually single.
Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
Her phone buzzed one more time.
A private message. Not the group chat.
Grant: Need a plus-one?
Riley's breath caught.
She stared at the message, reading it three times, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Grant. Offering to be her fake date. Of course he was. Because that's what Grant did—he showed up, he helped, he solved problems.
She should say no. She should figure this out herself. She should absolutely not drag her ex-boyfriend into a fake relationship just to save face in front of their friends.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Riley: You don't have to do that.
Grant: I know.
Riley: It would be weird.
Grant: Probably.
Riley: Everyone would talk.
Grant: They already are.
Riley bit her lip, her chest tight.
Riley: Why would you even offer?
The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Grant: Because I'm apparently everyone's plus-one. Might as well make it official.
She laughed—short and breathless and edged with panic.
Riley: This is a terrible idea.
Grant: Probably.
Riley: We'd have to pretend we're dating. Through the holidays. So they stop with all the commentary.
Grant: I've done worse.
Riley closed her eyes, weighing the disaster ahead. But the alternative was showing up alone and enduring two weeks of pitying looks and "you'll find someone" platitudes from every person she'd ever known.
Then she typed.
Riley: Okay. Let's do it.
Grant: Deal.
Riley: But we need rules. Ground rules. This stays between us.
