This was Daphne.
And no matter how fake this whole thing was supposed to be, I’d never been great at pretending around her.
I set the phone down again and dragged myself out of bed, every step stiff, every joint cracking. I ran a hand down my face and muttered to myself as I made it to the bathroom, “Let the circus begin.”
I took the truck.
Not the usual blacked-out Escalade that PR insisted made me “look like a franchise player”—whatever the hell that meant. No, today I grabbed the beat-up pickup I kept mostly for weekends and nostalgia. The one with chipped paint, two missing console knobs, and a cassette player that only worked if you smacked it just right.
I didn’t even know why. Maybe because I didn’t feel like putting on the show. Maybe because Daphne would roast me alive if I showed up in something too polished.
The thing rattled when I turned the ignition, like it was waking up hungover. Fair. Same.
I pulled up outside her apartment a few minutes early and parked. Didn’t text. Didn’t honk. Just waited.
When she walked out, I almost forgot how to be annoyed.
Jeans. Sneakers. Ponytail like she hadn’t even tried—but somehow still looked like she could headline a damn billboard. She was holding a water bottle and a tote bag and absolutely no patience.
She slid into the passenger seat like she belonged there, buckled up, and looked around the cab.
“This is shockingly normal of you,” she said, arching an eyebrow.
I grunted. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a brand to maintain.”
She smiled—just a flicker—but it hit harder than I expected. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain Broody.”
I checked the mirror and pulled onto the road. “Thought I was Captain Sunshine.”
“You contain multitudes,” she said, sipping her water like this wasn’t the weirdest situation two people had ever willingly walked into.
I didn’t respond. Just focused on the traffic and the silence stretching between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable, not exactly. Just… loaded.
Fake dating.
Lunch in public.
Pretending to be something we weren’t while trying not to remember all the things we had been.
I drummed my fingers on the wheel.
“You hungry?” I asked eventually.
“No, I’m fake dating you for the ambiance,” she said dryly.
I shot her a sideways glance. “Careful. That almost sounded like flirting.”
She smirked. “You wouldn’t know flirting if it hit you in the face.”
“You say that like it hasn’t.”
She barked out a laugh. Short. Sharp. Real.
God, I liked that sound.
A lot.
I gripped the wheel tighter and took the turn toward a low-key bistro tucked between a wine bar and a boutique. Paparazzi-friendly without being obvious. Cameron would be thrilled.
