"Nothing." Heat creeps up my neck.Busted"Just thinking about what I'm going to wear to this gala thing."
He seems to accept this explanation, though the knowing look he gives me suggests he's not entirely convinced. "Black tie means formal wear, not an off-the-rack suit if we want to escape my mother’s judgment," he informs me. "But don't worry about it. I'll handle that part."
"You're going to dress me?" The words are innocent, but my eyebrow waggle definitely isn't.
There it is, the slight crack in his serious expression, the corner of his mouth twitching. Worth it. Always worth it when he almost-smiles like that. My brain-to-mouth filter apparently took the night off, but seeing him relax even a fraction makes the inappropriate joke land exactly right.
He blushes slightly. "I meant I'd arrange for a rental. The Huntington's have an account with a formalwear place in the city."
"Of course you do," I tease. "Do they know you by name there, too?"
"Unfortunately, along with my measurements and preference for slim-fit jackets."
"The life of politics' favourite son." The words come out wrong, too bright, too forced.
"Not their favourite," he corrects. "Just their most useful at the moment."
The sadness behind that statement hits me harder than it should. Before I can respond, he stands up, handing me the now-melting ice pack.
"I should get some sleep. It's been a long day."
"Yeah." I stand up. "Me too."
We walk toward the stairs together, the silence between us charged with things unsaid. At the landing where our paths separate, he turns to face me.
"Thanks," he says simply. "For... you know."
"The ice? The offer to be your date? The not freaking out when you punched someone twice your size?" I suggest.
He smiles, shaking his head. "All of it, I guess."
"You're welcome. What are fake boyfriends for?"
The phrase hangs between us, feeling increasingly hollow each time I use it. Fake boyfriend. As if that adequately describes whatever is developing between us.
"Goodnight, James," he says softly.
"Goodnight, Caleb."
As he walks away, I watch until he disappears down the hallway. The evening replays in my mind, his hand in mine, the warmth of his body against my chest, the fierceness with which he defended us all.
This is getting complicated. More complicated than any spreadsheet could predict or control. And the most troubling part is that I'm not sure I want to stop it.
Chapter 10
Emotionally Significant Pasta
CALEB
Pushing open the frat house door, I immediately regret every life choice that led me to this moment. Music, if you can call whatever this bass-heavy monstrosity is "music", pounds through the floorboards. Red cups litter every surface like plastic confetti. First years giggle in corners, already drunk off their asses. I check my watch, 9:17 PM. Fascinating.
"Huntington! You actually showed up!" Drew bounds over, clapping my shoulder with enough force to spill my yet-to-be-acquired drink.
"Evidently." My eyes are jumping around in a systematic survey of the absolute chaos on the main floor. Solo cups float in what I desperately hope is punch. Someone has apparently decided the dining room table makes an excellent dance floor, and there's a suspicious puddle near the stairs that I'm choosing not to think about.
"Though I reserve the right to leave the moment someone inevitably tries to transform the living room into an indoor-outdoor slip-n-slide catastrophe. Again."
Stepping aside as two shirtless pledges thunder past us, hauling what appears to be an inflatable kiddie pool between them while shouting something about "maximum velocity" and"sick air." One of them is wearing a traffic cone as a hat. The other has drawn what I can only assume are racing stripes on his chest in permanent marker.
