Paige’s eyebrows arch upward. Her relief turns to embarrassment as she realizes how I’m planning to rescue her. Her eyes go wide, and she gives me the most minuscule shake of her head.
But I just nod, my way of saying,Oh, we’re doing this. I prowl toward her—yes, prowl. “Paige Devons,” I say in a deep, torn-up voice when I reach her table. “I know we said we’d go our separate ways when you left me in Bali”—we’ve never been to Bali, but it’s the first place I think of—“but I can’t do this.”
I thump my hand over my heart like I’m a man in the throes of love and try not to laugh as Paige’s vibrant green eyes narrow into daggers. “The striped sandals, the fire hydrant on Ninth Street, the rain gutter on my mom’s roof…” I spout the random list of things based on the items I see from my vantage point in the diner, then I stop and give her an inflamed look. “I can’t see anything anymore without being reminded of you, babe.”
Paige hates “babe” as an endearment. It reminds her of the pig. But when she hears it, I watch as her embarrassment turns to sly determination, and I know she’s in this with me.
She gasps. “Andy-Randy!”
My eyebrow quirks up.
She bites back a smile. “You’ve got to be kidding me, babe,” Paige says. “I never left you in Bali. You leftme.” The passionate denial in her voice rings true—her love of reality TV is paying off tonight. “Your sister told me you didn’t love me anymore.”
I don’t have a sister, but regardless, I hear a full-blown gasp from the table behind me.
“My sister?” I huff. “Shedoesn’t know what I want. She just wants to be the first to the altar.”
“And you, babe? What do you want?” Paige asks, voice sultry now.
“You. I want you, babe.” I get down on one knee, my pants scraping against the browning linoleum floors, and pull the ring from my pocket.
Her eyebrows rise with exaggerated delight as if my dad’s oversized ring has been on her wedding Pinterest board for decades. I’ve seen a picture of Paige’s dream ring, which is nothing like this, but she’s looking at my dad’s ring like it’s everything she’s hoped for and more.
“Oh, babe!” Paige gives me a wide smile, flashing her adorable dimple. “Yes! Yes!”
I stand up, and she jumps out of the booth and into my arms. I lift her off the ground, which is not hard to do since I’ve got a good eight inches on her five-five frame.
She whispers into my ear, “I’m going to kill you.”
I grin as if the words are sweet nothings. “Oh, Paige, you romantic, you,” I whisper back.
The whole diner is cheering, a crowd of people gathered around like we’re street performers paid to give them a good show. Some dad’s even got his little girl on his shoulders.
I know what’s supposed to come next. Any romcom worth its salt would insert a meaty kiss right about now, but Paige and Ihave never crossed that line and never will. It’s not that Paige isn’t fun or witty or beautiful, because she’s all of that. She’s got these killer green eyes that look like grass in the summertime and this rich-brown hair that puts dark chocolate to shame. Not to mention that dimple—I love that dimple. But Paige is my best friend, as in platonic. We’re often together but never “together.” She dates, I date, and we’re good with that. Why fix what’s not broken?
I drop Paige’s feet to the ground, and she gives me a big smile, one that’s clearly for the sake of our charade.
“Andy-Randy, you are just thecutest.” Paige leans in closer. “Now, let’s get out of here.”
That’s when I remember Paige’s date. I got so caught up in our act that I forgot why I was here in the first place. I turn to the guy. His eyes are wide, and his jaw is slack. Regardless of Paige’s reason for wanting to ditch this guy, I just ruined his night.
“Sorry, man,” I say, and I mean it.
The least I can do is pay for their dinners. I take two twenty-dollar bills from my wallet and give them to him. His eyes light up, and he leaves one of the bills on the table and pockets the other. Apparently, any grievance he’s had over my impromptu proposal to his date has been quickly overshadowed by the fact that he’s twenty dollars richer.
Paige gets her purse out of the booth then grabs my hand, not in thewe’re a happy couplekind of way but more like a lobster clamping its prey. She starts forward, my hand grasped tightly in hers, and we pass dozens of well-wishers on our way out of the diner.
Paige gets in the passenger seat of my car and shuts the door before glaring at me. The ferocity of her stare hits me with the force of a stuffed animal, soft and adorable.
“You are such a brat.” She slaps my arm.
“I’m sorry—I don’t know who you’re talking to. Am I Andy or Randy?”
She slaps me again, and I laugh before starting my car and shifting into Reverse.
Paige eyes me as I drive away from the diner. “You know I’m terrible at improvising.”
“Oh, I know.TheSound of Music, junior year?”
