Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125257 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
“Your cat?”
“I see his reputation precedes him.”
“I’ve seen the players and their posts with their pets. He’s the majestic Siamese?”
“Majestic and knows it. He travels a lot from my family’s place in Cozy Valley to my apartment in the city. Dude likes to look around. His harness clips into the car seat.”
“I need a photo of that,” she says, and I make a mental note of the request. “I want a cute little car seat for my future dog.”
“Let me guess—little purse dog for you?”
“I like little purse dogs,” she says, lifting her chin.
“And I bet they like you,” I say, then pull out and head to the gate. “Tell me where to go,” I say as I cruise past Carmine, giving him a nod.
“Toward the Bay Bridge,” she tells me. I tense briefly. That’s farther away from my place and hers. I don’t want to be away from my dad too long. He’s fine alone, of course. But he asked me to pick up some books at the library, and they close at seven. Gavin and Mira have a date night, so I can’t ask them. Besides, I want to do my share.
I scratch my jaw at the light then ask the uncomfortable question. “How far are we going? I should…” I pause, reluctant, for a second, to share any detail about my family. But I push past it. “Spend time with my dad tonight.”
She lifts a finger like she’s got this. “One second.” She whips out her phone from a purse, fingers flying across the screen. “Easy enough. There’s one on the way to Cozy Valley.”
“One what?”
She waggles her finger. “You want to be surprised, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“Then, go toward the Golden Gate Bridge and don’t ask questions.”
I seriously appreciate her quick thinking. “Thanks, Remy.”
“No, thank you for doing this with me,” she says, sounding grateful, almost too grateful.
I can’t stand the thought that she thinks I’m doing her a favor by pretending to be her guy. That’s so not how this situation is. It’s an honor to show her how she should be treated by a man—and more than just not being friend-zoned on the Jumbotron. But I don’t have a clue how to rappel into that conversation. Admitting I need to see my dad is vulnerable enough, so I keep my mouth shut as I maneuver through afternoon traffic.
Fortunately, I don’t have to say anything since Remy moves full speed ahead. “I’ve been keeping track of how to make this pretend romance work. I created a spreadsheet,” she says.
My brain short-circuits. “You have a spreadsheet? For fake dating?”
“Usually I write lists and sub-lists in a notebook, but a spreadsheet’s a little better for tracking an event, as well as the timeline,” she says, and holy shit, she’s serious. “It’s what I use for event planning so I’m trying to treat this the same.”
I’m not even sure what to say, so I grunt something that vaguely sounds like okay as I turn onto Lombard Street.
“I wanted to list each task and account for any potential issues or hurdles we might encounter so we can address them before they become problems. First, we’re going to have to say something at work. At least I am,” she says, apologetic. “About…” She clears her throat, then gestures from me to her. “Us.”
I tighten my hands on the wheel. “Why?”
“Considering the way Ivan was looking at us when I got into your car, I think people on the team and in management might start wondering.”
Okay, so she saw that.
“And that means we need to, what—make a statement?” I ask. It comes out irritated, maybe because the idea is fuck-all irritating.
“No, but I kind of need to tell my boss about it, at least, since there are going to be videos on my sister’s show,” she explains. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her scraping her teeth across her bottom lip like she’s worried.
Shit. I’m worrying her. Because I’m being a dick. “Sorry, I’m just kind of private about that stuff.” But what even is stuff? “Dating, life, and all,” I say, trying to explain, even though it doesn’t really make things better.
“Oh. Right. Okay,” she says, then goes quiet and thoughtful again.
A question hangs thickly between us, unasked. Why did I agree to fake date if I’m going to be a grumpy ass about screaming it from the rafters?
Because you don’t fake date in private. You fake date in public. That’s the fucking point.
My chest tightens as I remember the way the media wrote about me after Heather died, the stories they told about us as a couple, the assumptions they made about how I felt.
But Remy’s not asking me to talk to the press, or the fans, or anyone, really. Fact is, Remy only asked me to escort her to a few wedding events. I’m the one who wanted to stick it to her ex by making a whole deal of this. Calling her my date. Saying I’m her guy.