Complete and utter horror flares my eyes wide. Talk about a knockout punch.
Abort. Abort mission!
But my traitorous mouth, apparently determined to dig this hole all the way to Satan’s fiery domain, replies with gratifying enthusiasm, “Sure thing. I’ll check with him, but I’m sure he’d love to.”
What in the world of all things good and holy did I just do?
The words hang in the air between us, impossible to take back. I’m smiling but internal sirens blare warnings in my head.
I know I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t have prospects, let alone a boyfriend. But seeing Lindsey’s face contort like her brain is unable to make sense of what I just said—it’s so worth it. For a heartbeat, the satisfaction is all mine.
Then she claps her hands together in manufactured delight. “Perfect! Well, we’d better go. So much to do.” She clutches Andy’s arm possessively. “Caterers to meet, invitations to finalize.”
“Me too,” I say, bolting out the door quicker than a thief fleeing with stolen jewels.
I dive into my car and collapse against the steering wheel, forehead pounding the faux leather. What have I done? The enormity of my lie crashes over me like a tidal wave. I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t even have a friend who could pass as a boyfriend. I have exactly zero candidates willing to pretend to be madly in love with me at a wedding I don’t want to attend.
I was supposed to avoid this wedding. The moment I saw their engagement announcement, I’d planned a fake cold, a mysterious last-minute emergency, or a well-timed stomach flu to weasel my way out of going.
And now? I’ve painted myself into a corner with no exit strategy.
To suffer the defeat of coming clean with my big lie would be the end of me. I can’t give them the gratification—I won’t. The thought of Lindsey’s pitying smile if I showed up alone after claiming to have a boyfriend would be too much to bear. Or worse, not showing up at all, essentially confirming that I made the whole thing up.
Leaning back against the seat, I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, trying to slow my racing heart. So far, my attempts at dating have been unsuccessful to say the least. Now that I think about it, I haven’t really dated at all. Andy and I were just hanging out as friends back in school, and before we knew it, we were a couple. We just naturally fell into that rhythm without the awkward first-date jitters, or getting-to-know-you phases.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to trust another guy after what that jerk did to me, but I can’t give up now. Not when my pride and dignity are on the line.
I start my car with renewed determination as a plan begins to hatch. There is no other choice but to attend the wedding, leaving me approximately three months to find someone—anyone—who would be willing to stand in as my pretend boyfriend.
Chapter 5
Twenty minutes later, I stand outside the Colton Hayes Elementary School entrance, the crisp spring breeze cooling my flushed cheeks. I tug my cardigan tighter around me and try—with little success—to quiet the internal turmoil currently chewing through my sanity. My brain keeps replaying the moment at Granny Jo’s like a horror movie I can’t turn off.
Three months. That’s how long I have to find a fake boyfriend. Three months to pull off the biggest lie I’ve ever told and somehow make it look believable enough to fool my ex, Lindsey, and half the town.
I whack my lips repeatedly. Why had I opened my big mouth? Sure, the look on Lindsey’s face had been worth it. Briefly. But now I feel like I’m stuck in a rom-com setup with none of the comedy and all of the panic.
The sunlight peeks through scattered clouds, illuminating a paper coffee cup that tumbles across the sidewalk, pushed by the wind—exactly how I feel right now, directionless and at themercy of forces beyond my control. I sprint after it and snatch it off the ground, then walk over to the trash bin by the school’s entrance and discard it.
Minivans and SUVs start pouring into the circular drop-off lane, kids spilling out of them like it’s recess already—laughing, shouting, tugging at too-big backpacks that threaten to topple their tiny frames. I live for this chaos.
“Good morning, Ms. Lang!” calls Lucy, a little ball of sunshine with a unicorn backpack that glitters so brightly it could probably be seen from space. Her genuine enthusiasm improves my mood despite my best efforts to wallow in self-deprecation.
“Morning, Lucy!” I say, smiling as I wave her toward the line. “Love the sparkle today. Did your backpack get an extra dose of unicorn magic?”
Lucy giggles, her front tooth missing, creating the most adorable whistle when she speaks. “My mom says it’s too much, but I told her there’s no such thing as too much sparkle.”
“Your mom clearly needs a lesson in unicorn philosophy,” I respond with a wink.
My smile stays in place as more kids arrive, their parents parting ways with hugs, peace signs, or in the case of some dads, the occasional exhausted nod that communicates the universal lack of sleep that so often accompanies parenthood. One dad with coffee in each hand tries to fist bump his son and ends up splashing himself, the brown liquid creating a Rorschach test on his cream-colored shirt. I stifle a laugh as he mutters something that I’m sure wouldn’t pass the elementary school language filter.
As the line of studious first graders forms, Mom’s voice echoes in my head:This town is running out of eligible bachelors.
She wasn’t wrong. Most of the men in Maplewood Springs are either married, retired, or possible players like my last date. And the ones who I know have been single forever? Let’s just sayI’m looking to become stepmom to a tarantula collection or hear conspiracy theories about birds being government drones.
I lead the kids inside, collect jackets, and take attendance while simultaneously stopping two boys from sword-fighting with rulers and preventing a glue-eating incident at table four. Multi-tasking is my superpower. I just wish finding fake boyfriends could be added to my resume of skills.
This classroom is one of my favorite places in the world, bright with children’s artwork and alphabet posters. Twenty-three desks arranged in small groups fill the room, each one housing a child whose trust I’ve earned over months of songs, stories, and the occasional necessary timeout.
