But that’s not the story we’re selling.
That story makes me look pathetic.Girl falls for charming guy, guy disappears, girl agrees to be his fake girlfriend for money six months later.That’s not a Hallmark rom-com. That’s a Lifetime movie. And not even a good one.
“Your sister’s—what’d you call it? Bridal-cation?—still works,” Brody says. “You were there with bridesmaids. I was visiting the city. I still chased down the purse snatcher. We still spent the evening together. I still walked you back to your hotel.”
“And we didn’t exchange numbers because?—”
“—it felt like a vacation moment. Something perfect we didn’t want to ruin by dragging it into reality.”
No dance by the fountain. No kiss under the orange tree. As agreed, those parts of the story stay off the table.
I stare at him for a beat. “Yeah,” I say. “That works.”
The air between us feels thick, but that’s probably just the humidity from the espresso machine. I clear my throat. “Um, right. So, two weeks ago. Coffee shop collision. We recognized each other immediately.”
“And it was like we never lost touch.” The corner of Brody’s mouth tilts upward, sending warm fuzzies all through me.
“It’s the classic event-planner-meets-hockey-player love story,” he says.
I chuckle. “I’m not sure anyone would call that a classic.”
Brody scoffs. “Sure it is! It’s the whole ‘They come from different worlds but?—’”
“‘—make each other laugh.’” I shrug, smiling into my drink. “Yeah, okay.”
The sound of grinding coffee fills the air, and Brody leans back, draping an arm over the back of the booth. “We should probably know basic stuff about each other. Your family’s going to ask questions. Speaking of, who am I meeting today?”
“My parents, my brother Devon and his wife Melissa, and of course, Maya and Derek and a flock of their friends and extended family.”
“I might need a list.”
“And who should I know on your side?”
His face changes, just like that—goes a little white, and he swallows. “No one.”
I raise an eyebrow. He looks away.
And my chest sort of caves in, remembering his story about his father.
Okay then.
He looks back at me. “Favorite color?”
“What?”
“Favorite color. Come on, that’s kind of basic couple knowledge. Isn’t it?”
“Oh. Um—” Why is this harder than coordinating our fake backstory? “Green. Forest green. Sunlight-on-the-leaves-in-summer green. Christmas green. Not lime green. Or Sage. Or that icky brownish green.”For the love, Chloe, stop using the wordgreen.
Brody quirks a brow, but he types it into his phone. “Favorite food?”
“Pasta. Any kind. But especially carbonara. I’m very boring and predictable.” I pull up my notes. “You?”
“Blue. Steak.”
“That’s very…aggressively on-brand for a hockey player.”
He lifts a shoulder, but his smile is cute.
