Hemust sense my fluster because his voice softens, the teasing giving way to something gentler. “Where do you want to start, sweetheart? Our tragic backstory? Or the part where I heroically fall in love with you at first sight?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“I prefer charming.”
“You’re definitely something,” I mutter, fingers flying across the keyboard just to have something to do. “If we’re doing this, we need details. How we met, how long we’ve been dating, and enough information to survive dinner with my mother.”
“Do I get to pick my job? Because I’m thinking I can be a firefighter. Or an astronaut. Maybe… a professional masseuse.”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrays me. “You’re impossible.”
“You look beautiful when you almost smile. I can’t wait to see how your face lights up with a real one.” He tilts his head, studying me as if he’s in no rush.
It’s more than likely a line he tells all his potential dates. I know this, but why does it feel like he’s telling me something true?
“Okay, fine. We met…”
“At a bookstore,” he interrupts.
I arch a brow. “A bookstore?”
He nods solemnly. “You were in the romance section. I was in the cookbooks. Instant connection over poor decisions.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s memorable. But I see your point. Maybe we should stick closer to reality. We met at a coffee shop. It’s technically the truth, and I don’t want to start lying to my future mother-in-law.”
“It’s one fake date. All contractual obligations end the minute we walk out my mom’s door.”
“It doesn’t have to be fake, you know,” he mumbles.
“It’s all it can be.”
The air between us shifts, less teasing now and more… charged. His gaze drags over my face, slow and searching, like he’s trying to find the truth in what I just said.
“It makes it easier to sell the story, right?” he says finally, voice rougher, quieter.
I nod because it’s the safest thing to do. “Right.”
Except it isn’t. The word tastes wrong, too small for the ache sitting in my chest. His eyes stay on me. There’s a pull I can’t seem to look away from, something both warm and stupidly impossible at the same time.
This was supposed to be simple and transactional. A small lie to keep my mom off my back for a few more months. But sitting here, watching that flicker of something real cross his face, I can’t help wondering what it would feel like if itwasn’tpretend. The thought slides under my skin before I can stop it.
He exhales softly, as if he hears every word I’m not saying.
“Relax,” he murmurs, and his tone is less teasing, more tender. “You’re good at this.”
The words shouldn’t matter, but they do. The sincerity in his voice threads through me like a live wire, pulling something loose under my ribs.
“So,” he says after a beat, “what do you want your mom to know about me?”
“That you’re polite, responsible, and capable of using your indoor voice.”
“Brutal.”
“Accurate.”
“Okay, my turn. What do I get to know about you?” He leans forward on his elbows, grin curving slowly.
