“And,” Caroline adds, with a little flirt in her voice now, “I don’t mind the hot hockey player in the shots too.”
And those flutters take off, flying on little wings inside me as I head to the personnel doors, half wishing I weren’t hoping to run into Lake, and half hoping I will. This is so annoying.
“Want to know why?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, intrigued.
“Because we’re showing that jackass. Our plan is working. The preemptive strike,” she says.
Oh right. That. The whole reason for the fake date. My sister is Machiavellian. “Yep. It totally is.”
“Jameson’s bringing Chelsea to the wedding now,” she says, venom in her tone.
My nose crinkles. This shouldn’t bother me, but it does. “His new…girlfriend?”
“I don’t know. All I know is he said she’s his plus-one, and I hate him.”
That is so very my sister. “Understandable.”
“But also, this is precisely why you needed that plus-one. To beat him to it and you did. So let’s keep beating him. Keep showing him that you’re not even thinking about him, or that damn Jumbotron. Why don’t you bring Lake to the MOH—shit fuck damn—the maid of honor fitting after all?”
My lips threaten to curve into a smile. It’s embarrassing how excited I am for extra time with him beyond the next wedding event. Extra time like…nap lessons?
Get that out of your head.
Ever since he teased me about those, it’s not come up again. It was just fun—that was all. So ridiculous of me to even think I’d be having nap lessons. Who does that? Who wants that?
And yet, I’m practically giddy as I say, “Sure, I’ll ask him.”
Since I have a good excuse to reach out.
“All right. I have to go shoot a promo for tomorrow’s episode. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck with the germ-crushing brain.”
I hang up, and start to head straight to the stairwell that’ll take me to my floor, but before I know it my strappy shoes are taking me someplace else.
The long way. I pass the locker room, the weight room, the game video room, hoping to get a glimpse of the players.
But it’s quiet, no one’s here yet, and when I reach the stairwell at last I feel foolish.
This feeling is an excellent reminder that as much as Iwant him to go to the fitting with me, there’s nothing real between us.
I reach my cube, settle in at my standing desk, and get to work on the event with the animal rescue. As I spend most of the morning working on it, I nearly lose track of time. Coordinating the details, checking on the venue, planning for the photographer and then lining up everything in a new spreadsheet gives me a sense of purpose I enjoy far too much.
I’m about to head down to Daniel’s office and update him on how it’s coming together when footsteps grow louder and there’s a rap on the corner of my cubicle. I spin around to find Devon, our go-getter intern from the local university’s sports MBA program, carting a gift bag. “Delivery for Remy Hatmaker.” Her eyes spark with curiosity. “Looks like someone likes you. Also, I’m guessing it’s from Lake.”
My stomach swoops once more from the possibilities of what’s in the bag, but worry chases it. This is what Daniel warned me about. People will assume things about Lake and me. They’ll be excited for me for this “real romance.” But what will she say to me when it “fake ends”?
I don’t want to think about all the sympathy looks I’ll get, the sad faces, the elbow rubs, theyou’ll get through thiscomments.
Even if he is a gentleman. Even if I control the narrative.
But right now I’m consumed with wanting whatever’s in that bag. It’s overwhelming, this urge to open the bag. I reach for it as calmly as I can. “Thanks, Devon.”
She lingers, like she wants me to open it in front of her, but I won’t. I don’t know what it is. And I’m not sure I’ll be able to hide my copious excitement when I do. Or that I want anyone to see it.
She rocks on her shoes. “What do you think it is?”
