BROOKS
Three sharp raps on the front door, and I check my watch—it’s been seven minutes, and Sydney’s already here. “I’ll get it,” I call to Meema.
I open the door to see her, back in that puffy blue coat, her blond hair still tucked under a beanie, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her face twists in fear. “Is Maisie okay?”
“Oh, she’s fine. Did you get my last text?”
She blows out a huge breath. “No, I was driving.”
“Can we—” I point outside. “Talk out here?”
“Sure.”
I grab my coat from the mudroom hook, slip on my boots, and rush onto the porch so I can close the door and keep the cold air from reaching Meema.
“So, um, I’ll make this quick.” I fold my arms. “Donny just texted me.” I hate saying this, so I blurt out, “He’s getting the sportscaster job at W2. Wanted to warn you.”
“What?” Her face pales.
I also hate seeing her hurt like this, so here comes more blurting. “Sorry. He’s got big backers for the station. Marcus couldn’t turn that down.”
“That’s—they can’t—Marcus practically promised me that position.” She stares into space, rubbing her head. Then she paces. “I’ve been working toward this for three years, Brooks. Three years of standing in blizzards, heat waves and smoke evacuations. I’ve paid my dues.”
“I know you have.” Dammit, this is harder than I thought it would be.
“This is such BS.” She shakes her head, and I can tell it’s taking everything she has to hold it together. Her voice goes soft when she says, “Well, Marcus is under pressure from the board to boost ratings, and they think Donny’s following will translate to viewers. So that’s that.” She takes a deep breath. “Anyway, this was decent of you to tell me, Brooks. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She turns and walks toward her car, head down, and I feel like shit. I stay to make sure she gets out of the driveway safely, but instead of backing all the way out, she stops and pulls forward.
Then she cuts the engine, gets out of the car, and rushes back to the porch.
“Forget something?” I ask.
“Maybe,” she says, stepping onto the porch before she’s pacing again. “I think I have a strange proposition for you.”
“A proposition.”
This ought to be good.
“Yes.” Her exhale is visible in the frigid air. “I think we should fake date.”
I wait for the punchline. When none comes, Irealize she’s serious. “You want to do what now?”
“Fake date. Pretend to be a couple.” She says it like she’s explaining it to a child. “For mutual benefit.”
“And what mutual benefit would that be exactly?” I cross my arms, leaning against the porch railing. “Because from where I’m standing, there’s nothing mutually beneficial about spending time with you.”
Dammit.
That was harsh. And not true—but I have to shove her away.
She flinches but recovers quickly. “For our careers. You get the press off your back, improve your playboy image, and when I break up with you, you can be the poor dumpee who gets an improved, wholesome image and lots of sympathy sex. Sponsors will love it. Women will love it.”
Interesting.
“And what do you get out of this arrangement?”
