“Man, the way his tiny hand curled around my finger that first time? I was a goner.” He doesn’t make eye contact with me, but he doesn’t stab his Baked Alaska with the same gusto he used on his steak, either.
“Do you want kids someday?” I ask.
“Are you offering to be my baby mama? That’ll get the press talking.”
I scoff and let out a fake laugh. “You’re so funny.”
Jake looks at me like I’ve been body-snatched. And then he brings his sparkling water up to his lips and chuckles. “You are way too good at pretending, Scot. Half the time, I’m worried you’re falling in love with me.”
I make myself giggle for the onlookers—a sound so unnatural, I wonder how Jake’s ears aren’t bleeding. “I’d rather fall in love with a starving tiger.”
He laughs again, louder. “You’re so sour, he’d spit you out.” Then his eyes flit away from me, and mine follow. A woman at another table has her phone on us, obviously filming. I brace myself, knowing what’s coming. “Pucker up, Buttercup,” he says.
I suppress a groan as Jake leans across the table.
Romance books are obsessed with fake dating. They’ll tell you the fighting is better than flirting. Fake kisses hide real feelings. The brother’s best friend is always “The One.”
Lies. All of them.
Fake dating only works if you’d actually date in real life. Jake and I barely tolerate each other.
Not in a deliciousooh, look at that sexual tensionway.
In aif I have to watch him chew with his mouth open one more time, I will fake my own death to escape this arrangementway.
When it comes down to it, there’s only one reason I’m fake dating Jake: the dude is family. He’s been like a brother to me since before I can remember.
Which is why having to kiss him is so utterly nauseating.
I tip my head up.
He smooshes his mouth against my mouth, his lips wet and cold from the Baked Alaska and his breath lukewarm, and all I can think of is the time in college my roommate dared me to kiss a dead fish from the frozen aisle at Kroger. Except that was better.
He pulls back and gives me a smile faker than our feelings for each other.
“That is never going to feel good, is it?” he asks, taking a long drink of water, like he’s trying to wash the taste of me out of his mouth.
The woman watching us has set down her phone, so I dab a napkin against my lips before I shudder. “Never ever.”
We suffer through the rest of dessert, and my skin only crawls a little when he puts his hand on my lower back to guide me out of the restaurant. Outside, the night air hits my face, cold and sharp after the restaurant’s warmth. Waiting at the curb, we see the canary-yellow Lamborghini Aventador Jake’s driving tonight, the streetlights gleaming off its hood like liquid gold.
And we see the press. Camera flashes pop like strobe lights, and the rapid-fire click of shutters mingles with shouted questions. My hand instinctively tightens on Jake’s arm.
It’s only a few photographers—not nearly as many as we faced in Philly over Christmas break when we were “new”—but it’s still enough. They’re calling out questions, but we ignore them. I put my hand on Jake’s chest and lean close. “Make sure to open my door this time,” I whisper, hoping I look affectionate instead of aggravated. He didn’t open my car door on our last “date,” and three different tabloids reported it as “trouble in paradise.”
Gross.
We need them printing nothing but the best, which means I’m constantly giving Jake lessons on how to treat a woman. Always open her door, pull out her chair, and remember—for the love of all that is holy—to stop peeling out after you drop her off.
To name a few.
Jake is a reluctant student, but he’ll get there.
He has to.
We’re only dating until Spring Training. When he reports to the Firebirds’ stadium in Arizona in a few weeks—back in the team’s good graces (and hopefully with an endorsement or two)—I plan to be a footnote in his history.
Jake opens my door, and I slip onto one of the smooth leather seats. Every vehicle Jake drives is luxurious, but there’s something about being driven around in a Lamborghini that fulfills a childhood fantasy. Granted, that was probably only a fantasy because I grew up with two older brothers. And a Jake.
