Lottie
Thisisahorribleidea!
I freak out the moment Bodan takes a spot onstage. Not because Bodan isn’t attractive. He checks all the fake-date boxes in the all-things good-looking category: inviting smile, fit physique. He obviously came to slay the press in a dark suit that fits his broad shoulders perfectly. Honestly, he is sort of born perfect for this role.
No, he’s the reason I’m crashing out.
Who am I kidding?
I’m crashing out because I’m ME!
“Hi, again,” I say meekly as I take the final steps to close the gap between us. I never knew I could take such baby steps—myfeet barely move. Yet I know they are moving, because he is, in fact, getting closer, and I am, in fact, starting to sweat. “Err, um, I’m glad you made it,” I squeak out.
“I’m honored to be here.” He grins an easy smile that, frankly, makes me jealous. I’ve spent years standing on these stages next to my mom. It’s never been easy. Add in a fake date, and it’s deadly. “You look ravishing,” his casual compliment floats out.
“Well, I don’t know aboutravishing.” I let out a small chuckle. That’s an awfully nice compliment, even if I think he’s exaggerating a little to cheer me up. If he’s offended I don’t return the compliment, he doesn’t show it.
He scans the room, which is quickly filling with reporters. He slides his hands behind his back, clasps them, and whispers, “This room is terrifying.”
“Yep.” I follow his gaze around the hotel ballroom that is practically glittering with donor money. Dozens of linen-draped tables hold tall floral arrangements in patriotic colors—that part I’m okay with. It’s the banner with my mother’s face blasted across it that makes something twist in my stomach. It’s just another one of my mom’s political fundraisers. I should be used to them by now, but instead of getting easier, each one cranks the nauseating dial higher than the last. “It can be terrifying,” I murmur. “Just smile a lot and act impressed when you hear phrases likegrassrootsandbipartisan support.”
“And if I panic?” The dreamboat smile he gives me is so far from panic, I raise a skeptical brow. He’s clearly enjoying the spotlight.
“Start chugging water,” I say dryly. “They usually have that expensive sparkling water. It goes down easy and helps settle the nerves.”
He laughs an easy chuckle. He doesn’t look like he’s struggling with this at all, which makes me wonder if he’s just saying that to make small talk. For a moment, I feel sorry for him. He’s merelyanother one of Mom’s props—a temporary solution to move the current conversation in another direction. I hope this doesn’t backfire on him. If all goes according to my mom’s plans, he’ll get a giant credibility boost when this is over, and no harm done.
But if I’m honest, it’s the “no harm done” part that I can’t seem to get past.
Since when does lying not cause harm?
“Okay,” I say through a fixed smile as reporters position themselves in the front row. “Remember, if we do this right, we won’t have to do it again. It’s awkward, but let’s try to sell it.”
“I’ve got it all covered. I listen attentively. I laugh at the right moments. I say things like, ‘Lottie is the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.’”
I shoot him a look as his lips tilt into what feels like a flirty smile. “Don’t overdo it,” I caution.
“I’m a professional.” His smile fills in even more, confirming it’s definitely flirty.
I let out a shaky sigh and mumble, “I’ll never understand why you agreed to do this. My mom must have some serious blackmail on you.”
He laughs, showing all his perfect teeth—even his back molars. Either he had some serious braces or just perfect genes. “No blackmail at all, but she did promise to throw a little extra attention toward the museum. I’m hoping to get a promotion when my boss sees how ‘important’ I am.” He inserts finger quotes as he speaks, and it hits me. Here I thought he was doing a good deed, but seriously, everyone uses everyone.
My attention shifts as my mom strides through the open double doors, and her sharp eyes zero in on me. “Great,” I mutter.
“What?” He leans in, acting concerned.
“My mom has arrived.”
“We should probably act like we’re a little more comfortable with each other then.” His words are laced with logic as he holds his hand out like an offering. “Do you want to take my hand?”
I stare at his palm. Nothing weird about it—not even a single mole—and I double-check just to make sure. I’m not worried about his mole disease, but I don’t like these weird games. Before I take his hand, I glance back at my mom. Sure enough, she’s boring into me, like I’m taking some test. Against my better judgment, I slide my palm into Bodan’s. His skin scratches against mine as we shift, trying to figure out how to get comfortable. It doesn’t feel natural at all; his arm seems extra-lanky and gangly. I practically have to drop my shoulder to line up our palms.
Is it supposed to be this hard?
My mind snaps back to holding Ty’s hand—how our hands were magnets, connecting without effort. After another few awkward shifts, Bodan bends his elbow, and it feels a little better. Enough that I can step forward to play the role of the “good girl who dates perfect boys.” It sounds easy, but my pulse echoes with the memory of the way the other hand fit so well. I can’t help but feel like the other wasn’t finished.
“Lottie!” Mom exclaims, air-kissing my cheek for attention before turning fully to Bodan. “So glad you could make it. You look handsome.”
