Join the club. I’ve been awake since four a.m. running worst-case scenarios like my own personal horror-movie marathon.
“Okay,” I say, pulling out my phone and opening my Notes app. “Basics first. Timeline. How we met. How long we’ve been together. We need our stories to match, or Derek’s going to smell blood in the water.”
“Right.” He stretches his impressive legs out. His knee bumps mine under the small table. “Maybe we should just…stay close to the truth?”
“All right…so…” I try not to look at him. Jessa did say we could use the story in an official capacity. “Barcelona?” The word sticks to my lips.
Brody’s brows pinch, hesitation heavy between them, but he gives a nod.
Okay. We’re doing this. I tap the screen of my phone again and type:
Met six months ago in Barcelona.
He leans into my space, peering at the notes over my shoulder, and I swear I canfeelhis body heat setting my shoulder on fire. But like…don’t lean away just yet. “Ran into each other again two weeks ago.”
“At a coffee shop,” I say.
Brody frowns, his head tilting. “Not Ironclad?”
The explanation slips out without a thought. “We told that girl at the shop we were dating. It wouldn’t make sense for that to be our first time seeing each other again.”
Huh. Maybe I’m more equipped for this whole lying thing than I thought.
I don’t want to think too hard about what that means about me.
Brody’s lips part. “Ah. Smart. Okay, so we met again at the coffee shop.”
“Classic Hallmark meet-cute. The spilled coffee, hands touch, the whole goopy thing,” I add, already typing it down.
“And realized we still had—” He pauses, his gaze lifting from my phone to meet my eyes.
“Chemistry.” I say it like it’s a fact. My brain just spits it out. And now it’s too late to take it back, so I double down. I type it. Try to ignore the fact that every single one of my brain cells is collectively screaming because his knee is touching mine. It’s very loud inside my head right now. “And we’ve been seeing each other for two weeks. Casually. Taking it slow because we’re both busy professionals who don’t rush into things.”
“Seeing where it goes,” he adds.
“Right. Just…seeing if there’s something there.” I add a note:
Keep it vague. Don’t oversell.
“Is there?” He’s looking at me now. Not at my phone. Atme.
“Is there what?”
“Something there.”
My brain short-circuits, and for a moment, all I can do is blink. “We’re—I mean—for the story?—”
“I’m asking for the story.” But his eyes say something else entirely.
And there goes my heart again, and I have to remind myself that he’s literally an image pro. He probably wrote the book on meaningful eye contact.How to Appear Sincere for Publicity Purposes, Chapter 7: The Smolder.
“Yes,” I manage. “For the sake of the story, there’s definitely something there.”
“Agreed.” He takes a drink. Doesn’t break eye contact. “So, how’d it happen—our meeting in Europe?”
Oh, thank goodness. Back to facts. Heartless, feelingless facts.
We both know how we met. He chased down a thief. We spent the evening together. Danced. Shared a life-changing kiss. And then he left me standing outside my hotel, wondering if I somehow made the whole thing up.
