“You scored in triple overtime.” Mom leads us inside. “You had a hand injury, too.”
The house is transformed. Fairy lights twinkle along the staircase, flowers burst from every available surface, and happy birthday banners festoon the walls. But it’s the people that make my breath catch—so many familiar faces, all here to celebrate Maisie. Mrs. Johnson, my high school math teacher, arranges photos on a display board. Kermit, waving his hands as he tells what appears to be a poker story. All the Beaver Bookies, their arms laden with gift-wrapped books.
And in the center of it all, like the queen she is, sits Maisie Kingston in a purple dress that matches her shawl, cheeks flushed with excitement rather than fever for once.
“There they are!” she says when she spotsus, her voice carrying over the crowd. “My grandson and his beautiful girlfriend! Come here, you two.”
Brooks’ hand tightens on my back before he guides me forward, navigating through well-wishers with precision. His public smile is firmly in place now—the charming, media-trained expression that won over viewers last night.
“Happy birthday, Meema.” He bends to kiss her cheek, his voice soft.
“Seventy years young.” I lean down for my own kiss.
“Charmers, both of you,” she says, but her eyes sparkle. “Now. I forgot to ask earlier—did you remember the extra frosting?”
“Triple vanilla with raspberry filling and extra frosting on the side,” I say. “Just like you wanted.”
“That’s why I love her, Meema.” Brooks slides his arm around my waist. “She remembers the important stuff.”
The words send a thrill through me, even though I know they’re just for show. I lean into him, playing my part, and try to ignore how right it feels.
“Kitchen, Sydney!” Mom calls from across the room. “Cake needs refrigeration!”
“Duty calls,” I tell Maisie with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”
Brooks settles into the chair beside her, and I notice Jonah brooding on the couch while I make my escape to the kitchen, grateful for a moment to breathe. The aroma of Mom’s famous lasagna envelops me as I place the cake in the refrigerator, rearranging the food storage containers to make space.
“Girl.”
I nearly smack my head on the fridge shelf when Zoe’s voice cuts through the kitchen buzz. She’s leaning in the doorway, cocktail glass in hand and that signature raised eyebrow.
“Zoe, thank god you’re here.” I shut the refrigerator door, approach her, and pull her into a hug.
She squeezes me tight before stepping away. “How are things going, hon?”
“Good?” I say as more of a question. “The town seems to be buying our relationship.”
Zoe laughs, shaking her head. “They are because it seems very real. A littletooreal.” She studies me, that eyebrow softening. “You know I saw you on air this afternoon. And while everyone else was swooning over your ‘chemistry,’ I saw something else.”
I grab an open bottle on the counter and pour myself a glass of wine. “What?”
“Fear. In your eyes, every time he touched you. Not dislike or discomfort—but like you’re afraid of what you’re feeling.”
I take a sip, and the wine tastes sour on my tongue. Is that true? Am I afraid? Not of Brooks, certainly—the man who helps his grandmother up stairs, who has been nothing but respectful to me, in every awkward situation we’ve had since this started, which is adding up to be a lot.
But what about how I feel when he’s near? The way my heart races when he touches me, even for show? The way I found myself lost in that kiss yesterday?
Yes. That terrifies me.
“You’re falling for him.” Zoe sighs.
“No,” I say automatically. I go for another sip but stop, meeting her eyes. “But Iamscared, a little. I just need to course-correct and make sure this stays a professional arrangement.”
“Oh, honey.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m telling you this because I love you: I know I put this teaming-up-with-Brooks idea in your head, but it’s getting a little messy. Remember, he’s a man-whore. Be careful with your heart, Syd.”
I swallow, nodding. He is a man-whore, but my heart is fine. Right?
Zoe places a hand on my arm. “I’m here for you, no matter what.”
