Chapter 2
Amanda Anderson, a.k.a. a big-city dog walker who is currently very confused
Dane Silver is hot.
Which should not be the thought at the top of my mind,ever, especially now as he’s driving us through town to meet his family and also tell them the lie that we’re engaged.
Butbreak the family feud?
And by pretending to be madly in love?
That. Is. So. Hot.
I shiver like I haven’t sweated through my bra twice over already today.
And like I haven’t shivered six times already at the memory of him not only offering to go along with my charade, but also giving me a solid reason to believe there’s greater good in it.
Don’t ask what happened to my belly when he dropped to one knee.
That was stress. Had to be stress.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this plan?” he asks as he pulls his rental car out of Lorelei’s driveway to take us to his grandparents’ house for a cookout.
“Kinda my own fault.” There’s nokinda. This is 100 percent my fault.
I thought I was walking into the Gingerbread for hugs and welcome-homes and excitement over Grandma’s fiftieth anniversary of running the bakery, and instead, I walked into a massive guilt trip.
Amanda. You’re a dog walker. If you were headlining Broadway shows or walking red carpets like you thought you’d be when you left for New York ... but there’s no one else. Surely you can give up walking dogs for your family? For your hometown?
Like New York isn’t where I belong. Like the job that I love doesn’t matter. Like my friends and neighbors in New York don’t make me feel warm and welcome and free to be myself. Like the kids who keep showing up asking when they can audition for our first show at the community theater don’t matter.
Like just becausesomeone else could do it, it’s not important enough for it to bemydream. Like because I don’t have blood relatives there, it can’t actually be home.
The biggest problem making me realize just how much bigger this problem is, though?
I haven’t told my family thatI wrote the play.
They don’t know my community theater is doingmy play.
I’m afraid to tell them because I was so vocal about being an actress and then ... it just didn’t work.
What if my play is just as terrible?
I don’t want to hear theoh, Amandas that would come.
Didn’t you learn that theater isn’t really for you as an adult all those years ago?
So I haven’t told them.
I haven’t told them why I care so much, and I don’t know how.
“Doesn’t matter whose fault it is,” Dane says. “What matters is that we can still back out.”
“After the cookout,” I reply.
The cookout is our trial run. If we can win over even one member of Dane’s family tonight—Lorelei excluded—then we agree that we’ll continue this and see if we can knock down the walls one by one before our “elopement” next month.
If we can’t—well.
