I take a long, deliberate sip of my caramel coffee, the sugary warmth doing absolutely nothing to relieve my stress. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.” I lower my voice to a murmur. “I need a fake boyfriend.”
Claire’s eyes widen. “A what now?”
“You heard me. A temporary, contractual, emotionally unavailable male who can wear a suit, make small talk, and pretend to find me irresistible for approximately six hours in June.” I spread my hands on the table. “Is that really so much to ask?”
“I don’t know, Maisie. I think you should just come clean and skip their wedding.”
“And suffer eternal shame in front of Lindsey? Claire, this is a crisis unlike anything I’ve ever faced before.” I grasp her hand in mine. “You must help.”
“Well, when you put it like that. . .” Claire snorts, then tilts her head thoughtfully. “So you want me to help you find someone who could fake a relationship?”
I nod so emphatically I nearly give myself a headache. “Exactly! Someone charming enough to convince everyone I’ve moved on spectacularly, but not so charming that I’ll actually fall for him and repeat the cycle of heartbreak and humiliation that’s become my romantic specialty.”
Claire purses her lips, clearly running through her mental Rolodex of eligible bachelors in Maplewood Springs. Her face scrunches with concentration, but after a moment, she sighs and shakes her head. “I’m drawing a blank. Most of the decent guys I know are either taken or gay—sometimes both.”
“What about that one guy you tried to set me up with a few months ago? What was his name?” I snap my fingers, trying to recall. “The one with the nice shoes and the thing about birds?”
“Brendon?” Claire’s face lights up, then immediately darkens. “Oh, honey, no. Brendon’s not in town anymore.”
“What? What happened to him?”
Claire leans in closer, her voice dropping an octave. “Well, remember how he was really into exotic birds? Like, uncomfortably into them?”
I nod. “He showed me forty-seven photos of his cockatiel on our coffee date.”
“Right. So, apparently, he decided to enter Pietro—that’s the bird—in the county fair’s pet talent show.” Claire pauses for dramatic effect. “He spent weeks training Pietro to ride a tiny bicycle across a tightrope while singing ‘Sweet Caroline.’”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. Opening night, everything was going great. Pietro hit all his marks, the crowd was going wild, and then—“ Claire makes an explosion gesture with her hands. “Pietro spotted Mayor Wilson’s toupee in the front row, mistook it for a rival cockatiel, and dive-bombed the mayor’s head.”
I gasp. “No!”
“Yes! The mayor screamed, Pietro screeched, the bicycle fell and knocked over a candle display, and suddenly the whole stage was on fire.” Claire shakes her head solemnly. “Three fire trucks, two ambulances, and one very traumatized bird later, Brendon packed up everything and moved to Arizona to ‘start fresh where nobody knows his name.’”
Despite my predicament, I can’t help but laugh, the mental image too absurd to resist. Then reality crashes back down, and my forehead slams against the table with a thud that rattles our cups. “Basically, I’m screwed. I can’t pull a Brendon.”
“Sorry,” Claire says, reaching across to pat my back. “I wish I could be more helpful.”
I lift my head, rubbing the red spot that has surely formed there. “Don’t sweat it. I got myself into this pickle, I must getmyself out of it. So what’s been new with you? Still battling the restaurant gremlins?”
Claire’s smile fades. “My grandma’s restaurant is on life support. Bills keep piling up, and business is really slow. Last Thursday, our only customers were Mrs. Peterson—who ordered hot water with lemon—and a family of tourists who thought we were the bathroom entrance for the antique shop next door. And she hasn’t been feeling well as of late, so I’ve taken over kitchen duties.”
“But you cook almost as well.” Claire’s grandmother’s recipes are legendary in three counties, and Claire knows their secrets. “You just have to work on advertising.”
“I’m still a novice,” Claire says, spinning her mug in small circles. “I have a long way to go before I’m as good as my grandma or your mom.”
Her dejected expression tugs at my heart. I wish I could do something to support her, but running a restaurant is not one of my fortes. My culinary specialty is creatively carving out shapes out of fruits and arranging takeout containers to fit all that I want to eat.
“Speaking of advertising,” Claire says, perking up slightly, “Did you hear Sarah might be moving back to town?”
“You’re kidding.” We’ve known Sarah Lake since first grade. Lindsey used to be part of our clique, but then she decided to stab me in the back, and we haven’t spoken to her since . . . well, at least Claire and Sarah haven’t. My blood pressure rises just thinking about it. “I thought she’d stay in New York. Wasn’t it her dream to be a star marketer?”
“She was offered a position at a marketing firm here after she graduated.” Claire takes another sip of her latte. “She called me yesterday to catch up.”
“This town has a way of drawing people back to their roots,” I say, feeling philosophical in the way that only coffeeand existential dating crises can inspire. “Like a black hole of nostalgia and family obligations that none of us can escape.”
Claire laughs. “That’s dark. But accurate.”
