Great. My favorite subject. “I know you care about it, and I do too, but seriously, we aren’t in public. If I talk to Ty on the farm, nobody sees it.” I dig way down deep in my belly for the strength not to sound defensive.
“This isn’t about talking to Ty—although, I do have a plan for him to help me too. This is about you helping me more.”
“How can I help you more?” I blurt. “I don’t do anything for myself. I haven’t even gone to so much as a book club, because apparently 'romance books' sends the wrong message for your Wholesome Values campaign. What else do you want? I literally can’t give—"
“It’s not about giving me more.” She lifts a hand, slicing through my spiral like a guillotine. “It’s about showing everyone a little something extra. You hide in the shadows, but you have the power to help me by stepping forward—take the press off me for a moment while it still remains all about me.”
What is she even talking about. On what planet does that sentence even make sense?I blink. “Showing what?”
She turns to the side, continuing to admire her reflection in the mirror. “This hockey blunder isn’t blowing over fast enough. We had hordes of hecklers at the office tonight. We need new news. Something that drowns out this whole hockey-comment-disaster situation.” She waves a hand like the scandal is a fruit fly she can swat. “I’ve done some research. In moments like these, celebrities like to announce fake relationships to boost their image.”
I gawk at her. “Mom. You’re married. You can’t be in a fake relationship.”
“Yes, obviouslyIcan’t do it,” she says, as if my observation is the unhelpful part of this conversation. “But certain politicians in need of a quick refresh often rely on their children. Think of Kate Middleton. Her kids are always stealing the spotlight in such a way that it makes her look even better.”
My mouth falls open. “You’re not British royalty! And I’m definitely not a cute five-year-old dancing outside Windsor Palace.”
“No, you’re not that cute, but it’s all I have,” she says, brushing it off. “Lottie.” She gives me the political smile that signals she’s absolutely done with my opinions. “All we need is something wholesome. A dreamy boyfriend for you is the perfect solution.”
“A—what? Mom, who am I even supposed to pretend to date? I know, like, two people.”
“Well, Brett is available. He graduated from Harvard Law,” she says, and then adds under her breath, “and a very handsome dresser.”
I physically cringe. “Brett? That’s a hard no!I went on one date with him before, when you made me. Remember? He gave me the ick so hard I had to shower twice. He kept crowding me, and I don’t think he had deodorant on.”
“So, he’s natural—” she says dismissively.
“Disgusting!” I interrupt.
She lifts her chin. “You and Brett are both integral parts of my political team, and the public will totally believe it. You know, relationships at work happen all the time. He’s already on the payroll, so I won’t be out anything extra. Plus, think of the photo ops—”
“Absolutely not!” I cross my arms over my chest and turn my back to her. She has lost her marbles.
“Fine!” she snaps back. “If you don’t like Brett, you can find someone. He must be media ready and able to announce your relationship before the parade. I want new headlines for the big day, so I can start fresh. If you don’t have someone ready, I’ll have Brett step in—"
“You wouldn’t!” I’m physically incapable of closing my mouth.
“Try me.” Her eyebrow arches, and she tugs on her blazer lapel. “Oh, and stay away from hockey players. We need that drama to die down.”
I open my mouth to argue, but it’s no use. She’s impossible. “Whatever,” I mutter and storm out before I say something un-campaign-approved. The hallway feels suffocating, its framed family photos staring at me with forced smiles. I race downstairs, the echo of my steps ricocheting through the plantation-style foyer.
Of course, that’s when I nearly run straight into Ty. He’s on the bottom step, as if he’s about to head upstairs. Hands shoved in his pockets; he looks like he belongs in every soft-boyfriend aesthetic mood board the internet has ever made. His brows pull together, concern swirling in his eyes. “Whoa, Lottie Dah. What’s up with you?”
“Nope.” I move to brush past him, but our elbows collide, and the mere friction from his body makes me pause.
Big mistake.
He doesn’t let me pass and instead grabs my arm. “Lottie, what happened?”
I absolutely shouldn’t talk to him.
My pulse is still sharp from the fight. The last person I want to witness my emotional combustion is Ty.
But it all comes out anyway.
“My mom is trying to use me for political PR,” I blurt. “She wants me to fake date someone to distract from her hockey-comment disaster. If I don’t pick someone, she’s going to announce I’m datingBrett. I can’t—I mean I genuinelycannotpretend to date him. It’s hard enough working next to him, but if I give him a reason to get close, I don’t trust that he won’t push for more.”
Tyson’s lips twitch, and he steps closer, his voice low. “No, you aren’t doing that.”
