She sits tall, resolute. “Then neither am I.”
We sign simultaneously.
“So,” April says, looking up as she sets down the pen. “We’re really doing this.”
“We’re really doing this.”
“Fake dating.”
“For charity.”
“For four weeks.”
“While following eight very specific rules.”
She starts laughing, and then I’m laughing. I scan the documents and then we move to my couch. All too soon, we’re both giggling like kids who just did something monumentally stupid and exhilarating.
April gasps between laughs. “What have we agreed to?”
“I have no idea.”
“This is going to be interesting.”
I turn to face her. “Probably.”
“We’re going to end up on one of those ‘Celebrity Relationship Fails’ lists.” She angles in my direction.
Our eyes drift together. We’re so close. It would be nothing to close the gap.
“Almost definitely.”
April gazes at the ceiling and then at me again. “I can’t believe I’m fake dating Clark Culpepper.”
“I can’t believe April Hansen agreed to fake date me.”
We’re still laughing when my phone buzzes with a text from Whitaker.
Whitaker: Contracts received and filed. Love at First Wag already has some things on the calendar. I’ll send the details. Whether it’s a photoshoot or a public appearance, try to make it look real.
April glimpses the text.
“As if that’s hard.”
“What do you mean?”
Too much. That means too much.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just that we’re friends. We already like each other. So it should be easy to fake.”
“Right. Easy.”
But the way she’s looking at me doesn’t feel easy. It feels complicated and thrilling and terrifying all at once.
It feels like I’m teetering on the edge of something I’ve been avoiding for ten years. It’s grown into a monolith and now what? I don’t know. It was one thing to daydream and pine. It’s another thing to actually fake date the woman I’m in love with.
April gathers her things to leave, and I walk her to the door. This is it. Our last interaction as “just friends” before we officially become a “fake dating couple.”
“See you soon?” she says.
