“It’s not that I don’t,” I say. “It’s that ‘again’ wasn’t part of the agreement.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“Fake dating is a pretty convenient excuse for you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means fake also means safe. If it was just sex, that’s fine—you don’t owe him or anyone more than that,” Andysays, then her voice softens, “but, Lemon Drop…you’ve been taught to think love has to be earned. What if Owen’s the first one who makes you feel like you’re already enough?”
“I’ve known him for, like, thirty-seven minutes.”
“So call him. Get to know him for thirty-eight. Scare the hell out of yourself—because I think deep down, you want something real.”
I roll my eyes, mostly to stall. Because damn it, she’s not wrong. My chest tightens with something like hope, but what if I’m reading him wrong? What if I get it wrong again?
“I don’t know.” I take a sip of my latte to have something to do besides confront my feelings.
“I’m just saying the object of your clunge plunge is pretty much thirty feet above your head.”
This time, coffee actually dribbles out of my mouth. I walk over to the sink to get a napkin when my phone pings back on my desk.
“Oh my god,” Andy says, reading my text and holding the phone out to me.
Owen:Liv, I really enjoyed being your fake date last night. I’m sorry I left abruptly. I wonder if I could take you on a real date tonight? If not, no hard feelings. But if so, I’ll pick you up at 7 —O
Andy stares at me with a knowing smirk. “Guess I’m spooning a labradoodle again.”
Owen is holding a tiny succulent when I open my door to his knock at exactly 7p.m.
“You said you couldn’t keep a plant alive, but I think the others didn’t try hard enough. This one’s a fighter,” he says, holding it out. He’s wearing jeans and his signature hint of a blush.
“Thanks.” I take the little plant, and he catches my wrist and pulls me in for a quick kiss on the cheek.
“It’s good to see you again,” he says. “Thank you for agreeing to this.”
I’m distracted by the kiss and by the way his forearms flex where the sleeves of his black button-down are rolled back to his elbows. It’s the most casual I’ve seen him, and somehow he still looks effortlessly put together.
“I’m not sure what I’ve agreed to,” I try to laugh, but my heart is hammering in my chest. Last night, we attempted to trick an entire gala of my parents’ closest friends into believing that we were engaged, but I’m somehow more nervous about tonight. “Am I dressed okay?” I ask, looking down at my jeans and v-neck sweater, the one Andy says makes my boobs look like globes of cantaloupe.
“You look beautiful,” he says as his eyes quickly scan my body in a way that makes my insides tighten. “I figured we did fancy for our fake date. I wanted this one to be a little more…” he pauses, and I can’t help but finish his sentence in my head with ‘real,’ but he finishes, “low-key.”
“I don’t remember a convertible yesterday?” I ask when we reach the curb of my building, eying the vintage Mustang with the top down.
“No,” he laughs, “I had a rental Corolla yesterday. But I wanted something a little more fun for tonight. Besides, Eli never drives it.”
“This is Elijah Thorne’s vintage Mustang?” I say. “And he’s letting you drive it?”
“He lost a bet,” he says with a smirk and holds the door open for me. Once he’s in the driver’s seat, he hands me a pair of cheap gas station-style sunglasses. They are oversizedand…bright yellow. “I thought these would look perfect on you,” he says, and the way he smiles at me makes something flutter low in my chest. “And there are hair rubber bands in the cup holder, if you need one. It gets a little windy on the Great Highway.”
I pull my loose waves into a quick braid and glance over, only to see Owen wearing a matching pair of sunglasses, completely straight-faced. I lose it, double over with laughter, and an actual snort escapes before I can stop it.
“What?” he says, easing away from the curb. “I thought they looked good with my complexion.”
We park in a nondescript neighborhood in the Avenues, a few blocks up from the beach. Owen puts up the top and guides me with his hand at the base of my spine into a little shack-like structure with a faded sign reading “Mama’s” over the door. It smells like grease, sea salt, and deliciousness.
At the counter, Owen orders two orders of fish and chips, looking at me for confirmation. I nod.
