“Okay,” I say. “Tell her I say hi.”
“I will.”
She rises onto her toes and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. “I’ll talk to you later.”
I nod, watching as she unlocks the door and slips inside before it clicks shut behind her. I blow out a deep breath. Too bad none of this is real.
Fifteen
I’m Excellent With Ladders
Miles
I’m at Nora’s apartment on a Tuesday afternoon because my dad has developed an alarming level of comfort with lounging on the couch in his underwear. I love my parents. I really do. But there are limits—and one of them is accidentally making eye contact with my father while he eats cereal in boxers at three in the afternoon. Especially if Nora happens to be there.
So instead, I’m here. Her place smells faintly of apples and cinnamon. Books are stacked sideways on the coffee table. A half-burned candle sits on the windowsill. A throw blanket hangs over the arm of the couch as if it’s never known the concept of being folded. Nora stands at the counter, stirring a mug of hot cocoa.
This is supposed to be practice dating stuff. Low-pressure conversation. Comfortable silence. Normal, domestic moments that don’t feel like a lesson plan. Which makes it the absolute worst—and best—time to ask her something very much not low pressure at all.
I clear my throat. “In two weeks, the Bluestone Group has its New Year’s Eve gala and…” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly very aware of my own heartbeat.
She stills, then turns to face me. “Okay…”
“And,” I continue carefully, each word wobbling like a miscalibrated gyroscope, “I was wondering if you’d go with me.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she leans back against the counter, studying me over the rim of her mug. “You know I built an entire dating app for these types of situations. One you’ve used. More than once.”
“Yes,” I admit. “I know.”
“So, in theory,” she continues, eyebrow lifting, “you could use the app to find a date.”
I nod. “Yes. That would be… an option.”
“And yet, you’re here. Asking me.”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
She takes a sip. “Why me?”
The question lands heavier than it should, or maybe exactly as heavy as it’s meant to. I could give her a dozen answers. Easy ones. Strategic ones. Because you already know half the guest list. Because you’re good at this. Because you’re confident. But none of them are the real truth.
I shrug. “Because you already know me. And because with you, it’s comfortable.” Her expression softens a fraction. Enough to make my chest ache. I keep going before I can talk myself out of it. “I don’t want to impress anyone that night. I just want to… be myself. And you make that easier.”
Silence stretches between us, and my brain eagerly fills it with worst-case scenarios—her saying no, me showing up alone again, or worse, with a random woman from OneDate.
Finally, she exhales. “I’ll do it. On one condition.”
I straighten immediately. “Okay.”
“You come help me decorate my mom’s place for Christmas first. Normally, she doesn’t do much decorating because hauling boxes and unpacking everything can be too much for her. I want to make this year extra special. Plus”—she adds, eyeing me—“your height will come in handy.”
A smile breaks across my face before I can stop it. Big and unapologetic. Probably a little too much, but I don’t care. “Deal.”
She watches me for a beat, then shakes her head, amused. “I get an open bar and free hors d’oeuvres.” She shrugs. “Pretty sure I’m winning the deal. You look way too excited about hanging tinsel.”
“I’m a festive guy,” I reply. “And I’m excellent with ladders.”
She laughs, and the sound settles deep in my ribs. I remind myself this is still fake. Practice. A means to an end.
