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)
“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 I want 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, the you’ll get through this comments.
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?”
“I don’t know,” I say, honestly, trying to strip emotions from my voice.
She sighs happily. “I love it when my boyfriend sends things to the office. It’s like peak boyfriending.”
Then she leaves, and I breathe a sigh of relief and count down the interminable seconds till I can open the bag. Finally, I do, the crinkle of the tissue paper like a prelude. I dip my hand inside, then gasp, purse my lips, and fight off a squeal.
It’s a blanket, soft and fleecy and the color of sage and sweet dreams. There’s a card attached. With shaky fingers, I flip it open.
First, you’ll need a nap blanket.
I don’t want to be this excited. Really, I don’t. There’s no place for these silly emotions to go. So I don’t pick up my phone right away to thank him, or ask him to the dress fitting. I’ve got to figure out how to maintain some semblance of…chill.
Yes, that’s it.
I am chill. Super chill. So unbelievably chill that I find myself slipping into the ladies’ room, cautiously checking behind me, then locking the door. Solo bathrooms for the win. I dial Mabel’s number before I think twice.
“Girlfriend Emergency Line. How may I help you?”
I hesitate, then ask, “How did you know it was an emergency?”
“Easy. You picked up the phone and called. What’s going on?”
The sound of the bakery on her end of the line drifts by—the clatter of a tray, the closing of an oven door. I blow out a breath, grateful she picked up in the middle of the day. But what do I want to say? All the things I can’t tell my sister. For sure, the details I wouldn’t even begin to share with my therapist.
“This whole fake dating thing,” I blurt out.
“Oh, this sounds good. Give me ten seconds to set the timer on my Sweet and Salties ’cause I don't wanna fuck that up.” There’s a pause as she works on her pretzel bars, then she’s back. “What's going on?”
My heart is beating uncomfortably fast. “I’m not even sure. That’s the issue. Lake sent me a gift. Well, another gift. He’s given me a bunch.”
“Oh, I love a gift giver.”
“I know. I mean, it’s all good. It’s fine. It’s just that I don't want to enjoy this so much. This fake dating.”
“And, are you enjoying it?” she asks, inquisitive, like a curious reporter.
“Yes, so much, and it’s scaring me.”