The three of them take up telling stories of their younger days, letting Jake and me slip away. The distance does absolutely nothing to silence their voices in my head, though.
Can’t fake that kind of love…
Well, that’s exactly what we’re doing. Faking. I don’t know what they thought they saw in my eyes, but it was nothing except gratitude. Nothing at all. I barely know the man; he barely knows me.
So why does it feel like we’ve known each other for years?
Jake hasn’t let go of me, even though nobody’s eyes are on us right now. I haven’t pulled away, either.
The condition of our agreement echoes through my mind.
“After the wedding’s over, you owe me a taste of what it would be like if you were really mine…of what it would be like if this wasn’t fake.”
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t spent the last few days with these words swirling around my brain. Nerves and excitement for what he means overwhelm my body as I lean back against him, his body hard and warm against mine. I can feel his muscles through the expensive material of his suit. Hell, I’ve seen enough of his press to know he’s got a perfect six pack and biceps to drool over; and no, I’m definitelynotthinking about that right now; and no, my thighsdefinitelyaren’t squeezing together; and no, I’m definitely not falling for my fake boyfriend already because that would be insane.
I turn to say something and find him already looking down at me. There’s a mixture of hunger and softness in his gaze, not a trace of the usual joking grin on his handsome face, and all the words I’ve ever known vanish. He’s looking at me in a way I’ve never been looked at before, the way my sister’s husband looked at her at the altar. My heart thuds in my chest, and I turn a little in his arms, my breath coming fast as I lean closer?—
“There you are!” my mother’s voice slices through the moment, and I jolt, stepping away from Jake like we’re a live wire, rattled and unsteady on my feet.
Jake doesn’t skip a beat, grabs my hand and squeezes, a silent show of support that makes my poor heart beat even faster.
I plaster on a smile and, trying to hide my internal freak out, turn to my mom.
“Mom, this is Jake,” I say, introducing them. “Jake, this is my mom.” Anxiety twists in my chest. This is the real test. My mom will absolutely see through us if we slip up.
God, that would besoembarrassing.
I tighten my grip on Jake’s hand, but he looks absolutely unfazed, completely relaxed, while he smiles at my mom.
“Mrs. Lowe,” Jake says with heavy charm in his voice. “It’s so lovely to meet you. Cara’s told me so much about you.”
“Oh, call me Deborah,” my mom says, shocking me. “I must admit I’ve heard very little about you, though. My daughter’s kept you a well-hidden secret.”
I try not to visibly cringe and almost succeed. “Mom—” I attempt to intervene, but Jake beats me to it.
“That’s my fault, I’m afraid,” he says, smoothing over the awkwardness. “With my first playoff season coming up, I’ve not had time to meet the family between late practices and early starts. I’m truly sorry for not meeting you sooner.”
“It’s wonderful that you’re so dedicated to your career,” my mom coos, and I wonder who kidnapped my mother and replaced her with this sweet, polite woman. I need to get to work fixing his reputation before she tries to Google him, and this good impression goes out the window. I do not want to be on the receiving end of my mother discovering the article ranking Jake as the ‘most fuckable hockey player of the year’.
I zone back in to Jake discussing our fake first date story, detailing a fancy restaurant I’ve never actually been to, rightdown to mentioning what we got to eat. The order he comes up with surprises the hell out of me; it soundsexactlylike what I’d pick off a menu, especially the salted caramel and vanilla baked Alaska. I’ve never had that before, but suddenly it’s all I’m craving.
Jake leans down to press a kiss to my cheek and murmurs in my ear, “I’ll take you there for our first real date.”
My instinct is to tell him that there won’t be arealdate because this is strictly fake, but I can’t force the words out.
Probably because I don’t want them to be true.
Jake charms his way through my family, and much to my insane relief and shock, nobody questions the validity of our relationship. We manage to keep our lies together about how we met, why we’ve kept the relationship hidden, and how long we’ve been together.
Now, the DJ’s playing the last slow dance, and I’m watching couples sway on the floor as the music starts to play. A warm hand slips into mine, and Jake tugs me in the direction of the floor.
“Dance with me,” he says.
I hesitate for the briefest of seconds, trying desperately to deny what’s become far too clear to me tonight: I want him.
Like, for real.
Jake’s gaze softens as I step towards him. “Stop fighting this,” he murmurs as we join the floor. My arms wind around his neck, his hands circle my waist, and I swear we fit together like our bodies were made to fit. I can’t stop the way my mind wanders to whether we’d fit together this well in other ways, too.
