“One thing led to another,” he repeats, grinning. “Very romantic.”
“It doesn't have to be romantic. It just has to be believable.” I grab my purse and check my reflection one more time. “Ready to go convince my mother we're madly in love?”
“Are we madly in love? Because that seems like important information for the fake boyfriend to have.”
I pause at his front door. “Good question. How in love should we be at this point?”
“I don't know. You're the one who created this situation.” He steps closer, and suddenly, the space between us feels charged. “But if we're going to sell this, we should probably figure it out.”
“Right.” I can smell his cologne, something clean and masculine that makes me want to lean closer. “We're…smitten, head over heels, but not so crazy about each other that it would be devastating if things didn't work out.”
Something flickers across his face so quickly that I almost miss it. “Right. Can't make it too dramatic for when we eventually…” He trails off, his jaw tightening slightly.
“Break up,” I finish, and the words feel heavier than they should. “Exactly. We're in that honeymoon phase where everything feels new and exciting but still realistic enough that if we decide we're better as friends, it won't seem weird.”
“The honeymoon phase,” he says softly, his eyes dropping to my lips for just a moment. “Got it.”
The entry suddenly feels too small, too warm. I clear my throat and reach for the door handle. “We should get my mother.”
We cross the hall to my apartment, where I find my mother already waiting with her purse and a fresh coat of lipstick. She takes one look at us standing together and practically beams.
“Don't you two look lovely,” she says, kissing my cheek carefully to avoid smudging her makeup. “Brandon, that shirt brings out your eyes beautifully.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rhodes. You look stunning as always.”
She actually giggles. My fifty-two-year-old mother giggles like a teenager, and I realize Brandon's charm is going to be a much bigger problem than I anticipated.
The restaurant I chose is exactly the kind of place my mother loves, with white tablecloths, soft lighting, and a wine list with multiple pages. It's upscale enough to impress her but not so fancy that we'll feel out of place. Brandon holds doors, pulls outchairs, and orders wine with the confidence of someone who's done this a thousand times.
“So, tell me,” my mother says once we're settled, “how exactly did you two go from neighbors to something more?”
I stiffen at the question, but Brandon jumps in smoothly. “It was gradual, really. Stella's one of those people who just draws you in without trying. Smart, funny, completely oblivious to how amazing she is.” He takes my hand, and his thumb brushes across my knuckles. “I was a goner pretty quickly.”
The casual way he touches me, like it's the most natural thing in the world, sends a zing through my stomach. His hand is warm and callused from stunt work, and when he strokes his thumb across my skin, I have to remind myself this is all an act.
“That's so sweet,” my mother coos. “And Stella, what drew you to Brandon?”
“He's…” I look at him, at the way he's watching me with those warm brown eyes, and for a moment, I forget I'm supposed to be acting. “He's genuinely kind. Not performatively nice like a lot of people in this town, but actually good. He drops everything to help a friend, remembers the little things that matter to you, and he's never once made me feel like I need to be someone else around him.”
I pause, surprised by how easily the words are coming. “And he's fearless in this quiet way. He throws himself off buildings for a living, but it's more than that. He's not afraid to be himself, to take up space, to care about people openly. He makes loyalty look effortless.”
Something shifts in Brandon's expression, like he's hearing these words for the first time. Which, I realize, he is.
“Plus,” I add, trying to lighten the suddenly heavy moment, “he makes me laugh until my stomach hurts, and he's the only person I know who takes reality TV as seriously as I do. And he's not hard to look at.”
When the waiter approaches, Brandon glances between both our menus. “The salmon's caught locally,” he says quietly, leaning closer and pointing to the listing on my menu. “And they do that lemon herb thing you like.”
“Perfect,” I say, closing my menu with a smile. “I assume you're getting the ribeye, medium rare, no sides because you're going to eat half my vegetables anyway?”
“You know me too well,” he says with a grin.
When the bread arrives, he automatically pushes the basket closer to me, knowing I always go for the warm rolls first.
“Tell me about your charity work,” Brandon says to my mother, and as she launches into a detailed explanation of the children's hospital fundraiser she's organizing, his hand comes to rest casually on the back of my chair, and his thumb traces lazy circles on my shoulder blade. The touch is so light I'm not even sure he realizes he's doing it, but it's making it very difficult to concentrate on the conversation.
“Brandon, you simply must come to the fundraising gala with Stella next month,” my mother says as our entrées arrive. “It's always such a lovely event, and I know she'd love to have you there as her date.”
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth. “Mama, we haven't even talked about?—”
