“I’m not,” I insist—too fast, too loud, and absolutely unconvincing.
Rylee tilts her head. “So if one of these women asks him out, and he says yes, that’s cool with you?”
My breath stutters. “I—” The words jam in my throat. When I finally manage to speak, it comes out stiff. “It’s his life. He can make his own choices.”
Lach snorts. “Nora, you two aren’t practicing anymore.”
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head too fast. “He deserves someone smart. A woman with her life together. Not—me.”
Rylee’s expression softens. “You’re scared.”
“I am not scared.”
She leans in and lowers her voice. “You’re terrified.”
My fingers curl around the edge of the bar. Miles—with someone else. On a date I trained him for. Using the hands I taught him to place on another woman. My jaw clenches. “I just…” I swallow hard. “don’t want him to get hurt.”
Rylee squares her gaze on me, brows raised. “So you want to protect his heart…” she leans in, “or yours?”
Heat creeps up my neck. I don’t answer. I can’t—because answering would mean naming something I’m not ready to face yet. Instead, my gaze drifts to my phone on the bar, the calendar widget staring back at me. Four days. The number pulses loud in my head. Four days until family game night. Four days until I have to show up and pretend I’m not already in over my head.
Twenty-Five
Feral Goat
Nora
Over the next few days, I busy myself with OneDate updates, answering emails, and clocking long shifts at Porter’s until my feet ache and my brain finally quiets. It works, mostly. I tell myself this is how it’s supposed to be. Back to normal. I’m here to play a role, to show up smiling and be supportive, to be his fake date for one more night in front of his family. That’s it. Just a favor. I change my outfit for the third time and catch my reflection mid-frown.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell myself.
It’s only games and dinner with his family who I’ve hung out with a few times already. There’s no reason to smooth imaginary wrinkles from my shirt. I shake my head and grab my jacket, trying to dislodge the warmth curling through me. This is exactly why I shouldn’t be nervous. It was only sex. Something I’ve done with other men. And yet my heart flutters when I think about how he checked in with me. That’s the part that sticks. Not the pleasure. Not the kiss. The care. Even though he’s the one without experience, he wanted to make sure I was enjoying myself.
Ten minutes later, I’ve already sucked down half a dozen Fireball candies as if they’re anti-anxiety meds and paced my studio apartment so many times I’m pretty sure I’ve worn a groove into the floor. I stop in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
I’ve been on real dates. Ones with actual stakes and I never spiraled like this. This is supposed to be easy. And yet my insides keep spinning like I’m on a merry-go-round that won’t stop. I’m mid-pep talk when a sharp knock hits my door.
“Coming!” I call, yanking the door open.
Miles stands in the hallway, and my breath immediately hitches. He looks the same, but not. Same khakis, same polo, but his posture is more confident. His hair is slightly mussed, as if he ran a hand through it one too many times, and when his eyes meet mine, they soften.
“Hi,” I manage, my brain finally catching up.
“Hi,” he replies. We stare at each other for half a second too long. Then he clears his throat. “Ready?”
“Yeah. Totally. Very ready.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Good. He didn’t notice the panic, or the Fireball breath, or the fact that my pulse is trying to escape my body. I throw on my jacket and lock the door behind me, stepping into the hall beside him. Fake date. Nothing more. I can do this.
Melanie’s living room glows with a warm lamplight. The faint scent of melted cheese hangs in the air and makes my stomach growl. Throw blankets spill over the arm of the couch, the TV murmurs softly in the background—everything about the space feels like an invitation to stay awhile. The moment Miles and I step inside, the room erupts.
“NORA!” Mallory shouts first, popping up from the couch like she’s been waiting all day for us to arrive. She crosses the room in three strides and pulls me into a hug. “You made it!”
Before I can even answer, Melanie is right behind her, smiling wide. “Hi, Nora. Oh my gosh—you look adorable. Where did you get that jacket?”
I barely manage a thank-you before two of the kids barrel toward me, one grabbing my hand while the other launches straight into a dramatic story about a missing game controller. And then?—
