I stare at her, wondering when my mother became an expert in orchestrating fake relationships. “We, uh, we came up with the story to tell Maisie.”
After I fill them in, Mom says, “That’s good. Simple, plausible, ties in with Maisie. But you need details, Sydney. The devil’s in the details.”
“Like who made the first move?” Dad wags a finger. “At whose house? Did he bring flowers? Did you kiss first, or did he?”
“Dad! Please.”
“You’ll need to know all this stuff if anyone asks. Especially for Saturday. The whole town will be here, and they’ll all want the scoop on Beaver County’s hottest new couple.”
Mom has a mischievous smile. “You remember the time you made Jonah invite Brooks to your birthday party in fourth grade? You wore that blue dress you saved three months of allowance for, then spent the entire party pretending you didn’t notice he was there.”
“I did not,” I hiss.
But the memory hits me with humiliating clarity. It was a few months before the ponytail incident, and Ihadnoticed Brooks, of course. Noticed the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way he helped my mom clean up without being asked, the way he casually handed me my gift—a soccer ball signed by my favorite player—like it was no big deal. I’d slept with that ball next to my bed for months.
“Everyone has embarrassing crushes at nine,” I mutter.
“You did that dance partner thing when you were sixteen,” Dad piles on, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “And you clearly enjoyed—”
“Okay, that’s enough memory lane for one day.” I stand. “I need to go. I have to find Brooks and make sure we’re on the same page before the questions start.”
Mom stands and pulls me into a hug that smells like cinnamon and home. “I’m proud of you, Syd. For the job, and for helping Maisie. Whatever happens with Brooks—real or fake—just remember to be honest with yourself.”
I’m not entirely sure what she means by that, but I hug her back. “Thanks, Mom.”
Dad joins our hug, his familiar arms wrapping around both of us. “And if you do decide to make it real, I call dibs on the first ‘I told you so.’”
“Dad.” I groan.
As I head down the porch steps toward my car, Mom calls after me, “You and Brooks need to pick up the cake for Saturday!”
“Don’t forget,” Dad adds, oh so helpfully.
“On it,” I call back, fishing for my keys from my purse.
Dad gives me a thumbs up.
As I drive away, the weight of our situation settles over me like the wintry fog that hit on Tuesday. Our fake relationship is a shit-ton more complicated than I’d originally thought. The town’s gossip. Jonah. My sudden urge for cuddling.
And there’s something else nagging at me.
Something about my parents’ easy acceptance, their knowing looks, their hints that this arrangement might evolve into something real. It’s as if they see something I don’t, something about me and Brooks that seems obvious to everyone but us.
Or maybe just to everyone butme.
Because this morning, when I slipped out of bed before dawn to get ready for my weather report, I caught Brooks watching me through half-lidded eyes. His warm and unguarded gaze made my breath catch and my heart skip in a way that had nothing to do with our arrangement.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. This is fake. A business arrangement to benefit both of us. Nothing more.
So why can’t I stop thinking about how right it felt to fall asleep next to him? How much I liked helping him get dressed? How comfortable it is being with him because I can just be myself?
I hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand. “Focus, Sydney.” Prepare for tonight’s weather broadcast. Plan my first sportscast with Brooks. Prepare for Jonah. Survive the next forty-eight hours and make it through Maisie’s party without ruining everything.
Simple.
11
Heated
