His head tips closer to her, but his gaze slams back to me. “You’re not together?”
“Well,” I quickly say, trying to conjure something that might make him feel threatened, but Lottie steps in front of me.
“Nah, we’re friends.” She waves her hands in front of her, negating that idea, and my heart squeezes painfully. It’s not built to handle seeing the woman of my dreams ask another man out, while basically pretending like I don’t exist. I can’t listen. I’m not trying to be rude, but I stuff my hands in my pockets and turn away. I don’t miss the twinkle in his eyes, lighting up just for her—the exact way every guy reacts around Lottie. It must be a protective instinct, but my brain goes foggy. Their conversation fades into background noise, and I take that as my cue to sulk away.
She doesn’t need me for this.
He’s leaning toward her with a smile so wide, you’d think he’d just won the lottery.
Only this is better: he’s won Lottie.
This is the worst thing that could have ever happened, and the crazy thing is it was all my idea. My heart slams against my rib cage, ricocheting sharp pain through my extremities.
I’m clearly dying.
It won’t be long now, and I’ll just tip over dead.
I bet she won’t even notice. She will link arms with Mr. Intellectual Young Brad Pitt as they step over my sprawled-out body on the sidewalk and stroll off together to live happily ever after.
I grab my throat as I run off from this nightmare.
Unalive.
nine
Lottie
Hischinmoleseemsto pulse as I reluctantly lower my hand in front of me. “I’m Lottie, by the way. Nice to meet you.”
He reaches forward, taking my hand. I hold my breath, unable to help wondering if the mole disease is a real thing. Ty was teasing, right? Nothing about that makes sense. Not to mention, he’s the one who convinced me to come here. Why would he try to talk me out of recruiting a guy he basically preselected?
“I’m Bodan.” He takes my hand, holding it for a couple of seconds before releasing it. There’s no tingling or burning sensation coming in my palm. I don’t think he’s contagious. I hope.
Tossing a glance over my shoulder, I want to properly introduce Ty into the conversation. To my surprise, I don’t see him. Looking to the left and then to the right, my brows knit together. He’s clearly left. Distracted from the conversation, I hike a thumb over my shoulder. “Did you happen to see where my friend went?”
“Yeah, he scowled in my direction and stormed off that way.” He emits a soft laugh.
Scratching the back of my head, I stare in that direction, hoping to see where he went. It’s like he dissolved. With no sight of him, I turn my gaze back to Bodan. “I guess he had to leave.”
“I guess so.” He smiles at me in a way that makes me feel comfortable. I hate the position my mom put me in, but it is what it is. I came here to get a fake date. There’s no point in delaying the ask, especially if he’s going to turn me down. Here goes nothing…
Please don’t turn me down.
“So, um, like I said, I’m in need of a sort of date thing to make my mom get off my case, and it should not be a lot of hours. I just need to make sure you don’t play hockey.”
“Hockey?” he echoes, as a chuckle bursts from his lips. “Heavens, no. Hockey is a cult that is under the control of the shadow government. Trust me, I work in the archives. I’ve seen proof.”
“Ah.” My eyes move side to side because I don’t know how else to reply to that. It’s a bit extreme. “My mom works in government, and she’s not a fan of hockey but she’s never said anything like that.”
“She won’t reveal all the secrets.” His brows stitch together. “I don’t trust any activity that requires that many secret hand signals. They’re clearly up to something.”
“Secrets?” I’m mentally slapping myself, realizing we’re not only having two different conversations, but he’s starting to show some red flags.
Instead of replying to my echo, he looks at his phone and then back at me. “Hey, Lottie, I hate to cut this short, but I have to get back inside for my shift. But to circle back to your question, I’d love to date you.” He hands his phone to me and taps open the contacts. “Can you enter your contact information, and I’ll be in touch?”
“Fakedate.” I go hard on the F, enunciating it with everything I’ve got. “Not a real date. It’s just a public thing.”
“Right.” He nods, and I swallow. This was a bad idea but, apparently, I like bad ideas, because I go right on typing my number and give his phone back to him.
