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)
That’s a damn good question. That’s also why I came to her office in the first place even though I don’t entirely love talking about how my sister and I grew up differently. Those eight years made a big difference. Mom and Dad were happy when Caroline was a kid; they’d nearly split up by the time I was ten and she was in college.
“Sometimes,” I admit, with a sigh. I didn’t love the way I felt at the picnic when my parents praised me for the dates I planned for them when I was in grade school.
But if I dive into that with Elena, I’ll have to tell her I have a fake boyfriend, and I doubt fake dating is one of the approved cognitive behavioral therapy techniques.
I keep my pretend romance to myself for now, and I kind of like my secret.
* * *
I’m grabbing my to-go cup and slinging my canvas bag on my arm a few days later, ready to catch an early bus to a meeting with an animal rescue we’re partnering with for an upcoming event, when someone bangs on my door with a battering ram.
I swing it open, and yup. It’s my sister. In full TV makeup and sporting a luminous blowout, she brandishes her tablet triumphantly, with the words It’s done on the screen.
I squint to see an email from Fallon. “What’s done? Does she mean she booked everything for the cake tasting tomorrow?”
Shaking her head, Caroline’s eyes gleam with retribution. “The photographer who was a little too frisky with you? I made sure he was fired from the assignment. No one treats my employees that way, let alone my sister.”
Oh.
I’m oddly touched, though it’s wholly unnecessary. “It didn’t really bother me that much,” I say, since my maxim for the wedding is don’t rock the boat.
“Please. He was asking you to go to his hotel. Fallon overheard him.”
I didn’t realize Fallon was skulking around, but that seems on brand for her. Plus, I was distracted when Lake swooped in with a kiss. “True, but it didn’t seem—”
She holds up a stop-sign hand. “Look, this is better than the alternative. I was strongly considering wringing his neck with my bare hands. Margot talked me down.”
“It’s good to work with a pacifist who wants to keep you out of prison.”
“No one fucks with my people. There will be a new crew coming for the cake tasting.” She spins around, ready to march down the steps and back into her townhome in her ethically sourced eco-friendly kitten heels when she stops and wheels back around. “But they want to stop by here first.”
“Sure. So you can get ready,” I say, gesturing to her townhome.
“So we can,” she corrects. “I told them you’ve been using their makeup forever. The brand is all about real people and authenticity, so they’re going to grab some quick B-roll of you first, then me.”
“Okay,” I say, trying my best to sound excited, but likely failing. Being chronically online is so not my thing, but it can’t be too hard to do a get-ready-with-me video.
“And make sure Lake is there.”
My chest flutters. That’s an awfully inconvenient reaction to his name. So’s the shimmer of heat rushing through my veins.
“I’ll let him know,” I say evenly, since I don’t want to entirely let on how excited I am for a little extra time with him. But hold on. He’s theoretically my real date, and a good fake girlfriend would be glad about that. Right?
Shoot.
Real girlfriend.
A real girlfriend would be glad about that, I repeat in my head. Man, it’s hard keeping track of what’s real and what’s not. I really don’t want to mess anything up.
All day long at work the next day, I keep my head down and focus on the animal rescue event, but when a text from him lands in the early afternoon, all thoughts of work vanish.
Lake: My place or yours?
He’s asking about the haircut. Of course he’s asking about the haircut. But I tug at my shirt collar and fan my face before I answer with Mine.
* * *
Everything’s ready. A towel, scissors, a comb. A spray bottle of water. A chair in the kitchen. I pace around my home, checking to make sure the counter is clean. I do a quick online check, making absolutely sure I have everything for a haircut.
I scan the site and my supplies. Perfect. I’ve got this.
But maybe I should practice some breathing exercises since my pulse is rocketing to the freaking moon. It’s just a haircut. That’s all. There’s no need for my heart to beat so infuriatingly fast.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath and—
The doorbell trills, and I jump.
“Shit,” I mutter, then I check my reflection in a mirror in the hallway. Minimal makeup since I’ll need to touch it up for Fresh Face.