A year ago, I would have written this off as naive optimism. Hell, a month ago I probably would have. But he's not being naive. He's thought this through. There's a difference between idealism and stupidity, and apparently I'm only now learning to tell them apart.
Damn it. I'm going soft. This is James's fault. And Gavin's.
And now Jaren's standing here fixing heating vents and talking about kids who need someone. Next thing you know, I'll be volunteering at soup kitchens. Is this what fake dating does to a person, making caring contagious?
Absolutely unacceptable.
"What about you?" he asks, packing his tools away with methodical precision. "Big law firm after graduation?"
"That's the expectation," is my standard answer.
Jaren nods, but doesn't push. Another surprisingly tolerable thing about him, he doesn't pry. "Well," he says after a moment, "sometimes the most important work happens in unexpected places. My advisor says social workers need good lawyers almost as much as they need funding."
He says it casually, but something about the observation feels pointed, like he sees more than I give him credit for. Social workers need good lawyers; he's not wrong.
Exactly the argument I'll be making when I tell my father that I'm not joining Huntington Law Group, but rather taking a job with an LGBTQ+ advocacy organization instead. That conversation is going to be spectacular in the worst possible way.
"My best friend in high school," Jaren says suddenly, voice quieter as he closes his toolbox, "he ran away when we were sixteen. Bad home life that the grown-ups didn't notice. Haven't heard from him since." He stands, meeting my eyes with surprising intensity. "That's why I'm doing this. Some kids need someone to see them before they disappear."
The confession hangs in the air between us, unexpectedly heavy. Before I can come up with the right thing to say, that easy grin slides back onto Jaren's face like he never let it slip. "Anyway, the vent's fixed. No more rattling to keep you up during your all-nighters."
Five hours later,I'm standing in front of my closet, contemplating the relative merits of the navy suit versus the charcoal one, when there's a knock at my door.
"It's open,"
James enters, already dressed in the suit we bought for our first fake date. He's done something different with his hair, pushed it back in a way that makes him look more sophisticated. More handsome.
Not that I care. Much.
"Hey," he says, hovering awkwardly by the door. "Gavin said you wanted to see me before we left?"
"Yeah, I just—" I hold up both suits. "Navy or charcoal?"
"For a fundraiser? Navy's more approachable, charcoal says you take yourself too seriously." He hesitates. "At least, that's what the guy at the suit shop told us when you took me to shop for mine."
"Mr. Harrington, the fashion expert." A smile breaks through despite my effort to remain grouchy as I reach for the navy suit. "Thanks."
A moment of awkward silence passes where I'm positive we're both thinking about the same thing: me pinned against a snow barricade, his hands in my hair, the taste of?—
"So, about tonight…"
"Yeah, about that." James shifts his weight. "Are we still, um...?"
"Pretending to date? I guess that depends."
"On what?"
I'm opening my mouth to answer when my door flies open and Gavin strolls in like he owns the place, flopping dramatically onto my bed.
"Tell me there's at least decent food at these political things," he says, folding his arms behind his head. "The last football fundraiser I went to had these tiny appetizers that were basically weeds on a cracker. I had to hit McDonald's on the way home."
James glances at me. Yeah. We're both thinking the same thing, saved by Gavin, of all people.
"The food's usually decent." The navy suit lands on the bed. My hoodie comes off, then my t-shirt. "Senator Williams always brings in this catering company that does these amazing bacon-wrapped scallops."
James goes very still across the room, his eyes tracking every movement I make. Not subtle. He's staring, not even pretending not to. His eyes follow the path of fabric sliding over my skin.
The heat that follows his gaze is... It's not unwelcome. Not even a little bit.
