“It comes out onas neededbasis.”
“Noted.”
“He looks a little worried, so I say, “Fine. I’ll play along.” I point to the desk. “I’ll need to get in there.”
Logan’s feet push off the floor, and he rolls out in my chair to the side.
As I dig through my desk drawer for a piece of paper and a pen, shoving aside paperclips and sticky notes, one thought hums through my mind louder than any of his raucous guitar solos.
What the heck have I just agreed to?
Logan uncaps my blue pen and starts writing “Pretend Relationship Agreement” at the top of the page in big, bold letters. The dramatic flourish of his wrist as he forms each capital letter makes me wonder if he practices autographing body parts on a daily basis.
“Rule number one,” he says, scribbling it out, “one cannot fall for the other.” The last few words we say in unison. Logan glances up at me like I’m joking. I’m not. “I’m serious, this is the most important part.
“Shouldn’t be an issue. You’re really not my type.” Too much of a loose cannon, this one.
He smirks and looks back at the piece of paper that is to be our contract. “You catch on quick, Lang. You’re not mine either.”
Relief curves my mouth upward. The first rule is the only one I care about. After all, good looks aren’t the secret to a successful relationship. It’s the little moments—like making chicken soup when you’re sick or serving breakfast in bed on a lazy Sunday or arriving home to a bouquet of flowers after a hard day’s work—all acts of kindness that speak volumes about a person. It’s having each other’s backs—as I’ve seen my parents demonstrate throughout the years—that strengthens the foundation of any union. That last bit I’m convinced Logan is incapable of. He only cares about himself.
“Rule number two,” Logan moves on, “no one can know about this. Not the contract, not the arrangement, and definitely not that I’m back in town.”
“Got it,” I say, nodding with exaggerated solemnity. “Top secret.”
“I’m talking Mission Impossible level,” he says as he writes. “We tell no one. If my manager or my publicist finds out, I’m toast. You’re toast. This entire charade?” His eyes widen for effect. “Burnt toast.”
“Are you done with the breakfast metaphors?”
“Almost,” he says, tapping the pen against his chin in a way that draws attention to his jawline, which is absolutely not something I should be leering at. “I could throw in something about scrambled plans or half-baked ideas, but I’ll waffle on that for now.”
I roll my eyes. “Please make it stop.”
“As you wish. Let’s move on to rule number three. You’re responsible for making this fun.”
“What kind of rule is that?” I say, approaching my desk.
He points the pen at me, grinning with all the self-assurance of someone who’s never had to put in effort to make a relationship work. “This is your town. You know all the good spots. I need a break from the spotlight, and this arrangement means I get to have a semi-normal, small-town experience.” He leans forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Entertain me.”
Mmm-hmm. More like a distraction from infamy. “Oh, so I’m your personal event planner now?” I fold my arms across my chest, trying to look stern but probably failing.
“Exactly. Except unpaid and with better snacks,” he offers with a wink.
“You’re impossible.”
“And you’re lucky I’mthischarming.“ He signs his name with a theatrical swoop at the bottom. “Your turn,” he says, sliding the contract over to me, our fingers brushing in the exchange which elicits a prompt withdrawal on my part.
I read it over—because what kind of teacher would I be if I didn’t check for spelling errors?
“Something’s missing,” I tell him, scribbling in rule number four. “Logan must attend the wedding as agreed upon.”
“Sounds like a fair deal.” He swirls in my chair like a kid.
With the rules established, I sign my name at the bottom like it’s the lease on a high-end apartment I can’t afford. My signature looks awkwardly formal next to his artistic scrawl. Just another reminder of how different our worlds are—his full of spotlights and record deals, mine of alphabet charts and parent-teacher conferences.
Logan snatches the paper back and folds it in half. “I’ll hang on to this.”
“Don’t I get a copy?”
