Finally, she sighed and tucked her clipboard under her arm. “Fine. But if we end up at a drive-thru, I’m making you order everything in a British accent.”
“I knew you were into roleplay.”
She gave me a look that could’ve killed a lesser man, but she was fighting a smile.
I held the door open for her as we stepped out into the warm night air.
Yeah, it was just food.
But I’d take every second I could get.
The place we ended up at was this little sports bar tucked off a side street—not fancy, but the kind of spot with dark wood booths, vintage game posters, and the low hum of laughter layered under whatever rock playlist they had on rotation.
A couple heads turned when we walked in. A guy at the bar gave me a double take. Someone at a nearby table whispered my name.
I didn’t care.
Not tonight.
The hostess recognized me, but to her credit, she didn’t make a thing of it. Just smiled and led us to a booth in the back, where the lights were dim and the cushions had seen better days. Daphne slid into her seat like she was pretending not to notice people watching us.
We ordered burgers and fries. Two beers.
When the waitress walked away, Daphne picked up her napkin and started folding it, her brow furrowed like she was working through calculus instead of dinner conversation.
“We should probably figure out what we’re telling people,” she said eventually.
“About how crazy you are about me?” I leaned back in the booth and took a sip of my drink. “Sure.”
She gave me a look. One eyebrow arched like a challenge. “About our relationship, you idiot.”
“Oh, that. Easy. We met. Fell in love. Can’t keep our hands off each other.”
“Kieren.”
I shrugged. “What? Sounds good to me. The press eats that stuff up.”
“I’m serious.”
“I am serious.” I leaned forward a little, resting my arms on the table. “Okay, fine. You want something more believable?”
“Yes.”
I pretended to think. “I’ll be the lovestruck himbo. You be the uptight goddess who tried to resist me but couldn’t.”
She snorted, almost choking on her drink. “Tragically accurate.”
“Right? I’ve got range.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.
We ended up tossing around a dozen dumb ideas, just for the hell of it. According to our new “official” story, we bumped into each other at media day. I spilled a Gatorade on her blouse. She threatened to ruin my career. I flirted shamelessly anyway. Sparks flew.
We started secretly dating the next day.
“Do we want to add a dramatic twist?” I asked between bites of my burger. “Like… I rescued you from a pack of wild reporters. Or you caught me shirtless in the locker room and couldn’t resist.”
“Or maybe I just got tired of reporting on dramatic men flailing every time an opponent breathed on them wrong and decided to settle for the most exhausting one,” she shot back.
