Maria ignores me, fingers flying across her screen. “Hold up, let me google him.”
“Maria, don’t you dare?—”
“Oh my God, Alycia. He’s gorgeous. Like, jawline-for-days, eyes-that-could-sink-a-ship gorgeous. He’s six-two, plays defense, and once got ejected for fighting on the ice. Honestly, sounds like your type.”
I nearly miss my turn, choking out, “He’s not my type. None of them are my type.”
Maria smirks. “You say that, but if your fake boyfriend shows up tonight wearing skates, I’m sending you flowers.”
“You two areevil.”
“Accurate,” Tiff says. “Now, park the car and fix your lipstick; you’ve got fifteen minutes to convince a stranger you’re worth lying for.”
I let out a strangled laugh, the kind that feels halfway between hysteria and prayer. “Thanks. Super helpful pep talk.”
“Anytime,” Maria says sweetly. “Text us if he turns out to be hot enough to ruin your life.”
“Bye.” I hang up before they can make it worse.
The phone screen goes dark, leaving me alone with my reflection in the glass. The café sign glows across the street, soft light bleeding into the darkening sky.
“Okay, Torres,” I whisper, straightening my blazer and grabbing my bag. “Time to meet your fake boyfriend and trynotto fall for him.”
The bell above the door chimes as I step inside, the sound soft and almost too cheerful for the state of mynerves. The air smells like espresso and sugar—the warm, rich scent that seeps into everything and clings to sweaters and stays with you long after you’ve left.
My reflection in the glass case by the register has me instantly regretting not going home to change first, but this isn’t a date. It’s business. A ridiculous fake-dating, save-me-from-my-mother, nothing-but-business arrangement. I pick a small table tucked away in the corner and open my laptop like a shield. I even pull up a blank document titledContractual Terms of Disasterbecause if I’m going to make a fool of myself, I might as well look organized doing it.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. Just as I’m looking down to check my watch again, the door opens, and everything in me goes still.
He’s here. The guy from the elevator. The stranger who smiled like he already knew how this would end. He steps inside, shaking off the drizzle, water glinting in his hair under the café lights. His black jacket clings to broad shoulders, sleeves shoved to his elbows like he’s been fighting with the rain. He scans the room, and when his eyes land on me, my pulse stutters. He’s taller than I remembered, or maybe it’s that I’m sitting down, pretending I don’t feel the air shift around us.
“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice is low, rough in a way that curls around the edges of my name, even though he doesn’t say it. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”
“I said I would.” My words come out steadier than I feel. “And you’re late.”
He glances at the clock behind the counter. “By two minutes.”
“Still late.”
He laughs, and the woman at the next table glances over as if she feels it, too. When he slides into the seat across from me, the table suddenly feels too small. His knee almost brushes mine, and every cell in my body braces for the contact that doesn’t come.
“Mind if I sit?”
“You’re already doing it.”
“Fair point.” His grin deepens, lazy and unhurried. “You look like someone about to conduct an interview.”
“I take my fake relationships seriously.”
“Is picking up men in elevators and bribing them to pretend to be your boyfriend a regular occurrence for you?”
“Only on Thursdays.” My cheeks burn before I can stop them.
“Lucky me.”
He’s teasing me, but there’s an edge of truth buried in his words that makes my stomach twist. What kind of sane person picks up a stranger in an elevator and ropes him into playing pretend?
The way he’s looking at me doesn’t help either. He’s amused, but also curious. It’s as if he’s trying to figure me out, and I don’t know if I want him to. I drop my gaze to my laptop, pretending to type. But everything about him is too much in this small café—the clean and woodsy scent of his cologne, the quiet hum of confidence radiating off him like heat.
