I pull out of the lot and head toward Hollybrook. “We should come up with a story of how we met.”
“Good idea,” she says. “Along with a few other things that a couple should know.”
“Yeah,” I say, “So for how we met, I thought we could say we met at a networking event.”
Her shoulders go rigid. “Why not tell them the truth?”
“You think we should tell my family I’m paying you to be my girlfriend?” I ask in disbelief.
“Let’s get one thing clear,” she says, her voice icy. “You’re not paying me to be your girlfriend. You’re making up for my lost wages and for me to get here, but I’m here of my own free will. I’m not some paid escort.”
If I’m paying for her lost wages, isn’t that the same thing as paying her to be my girlfriend? But it’s obviously important to her to think otherwise, and I’m smart enough to let it go. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant.”
“And I’m not stupid. I’m not going to tell them that. But the fact you want to change the location of where we actually met means you’re embarrassed I work at Beans to Go.”
“That’s not it,” I say quickly. “It’s just… my brothers probably won’t believe I’m dating a woman who works in a coffee shop.”
Her eyes narrow, sharp as glass. “Because it means I’m beneath you?” The iciness in her voice makes my gut tighten.
“I didn’t say that,” I shoot back, defensive.
“Then why wouldn’t they believe it?” She pins me with a look that dares me to lie.
I scramble for words that won’t sound worse than the truth. Before I can manage it, she cuts in.
“Because you don’t date women who work in coffee shops,” she says flatly, daring me to deny it.
“It’s just that?—”
“Your other girlfriends have all had degrees and careers, not jobs, right?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No,” she shoots back, her gaze unrelenting. “You didn’t have to.”
Her words sting because they’re too close to the truth. Since college, every woman I’ve dated has been some version of polished, ambitious, impressive on paper. Finance, law, PR.
And now I’m sitting next to Finley, who doesn’t fit any of those boxes. The way she’s glaring at me—cheeks flushed, posture rigid—it should make me irritated. Instead, something hot curls low in my gut.
“I’m not sure this is going to work,” she says softly.
Panic spikes in my chest. “Why not? Because we don’t agree on the story of how we met?”
“No,” she says, her voice edged with hurt. “Because you obviously don’t respect me as a person.”
The words knock the breath out of me. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” She turns fully toward me, her eyes sharp. “You just admitted that your brothers would never believe you’d date a woman who works at a coffee shop.”
I clench the wheel, biting back a curse. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I wouldn’t have dated her in real life. But hearing her say it pisses me off, and I don’t know why.
My shoulders square. “It’s a little late to be having second thoughts.”
“You’re right,” she snaps. “You’ve gone to the expense of bringing me here, so I’ll live up to my end of the bargain.”
“Don’t sound so thrilled,” I mutter.
She’s quiet for a moment, then her tone is calmer. Cooler. “In hindsight, we should have worked out the story before we signed the contract.”
