“Just think about it—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Banks would be perfect!”
“Banks can barely form complete sentences around me!” I set down my wine before I spill it. “He looks at me like I’m a problem he’s trying to solve!”
“He looks at everyone like that. That’s just his face.” She waves one hand.
“It’s a terrifying face…”
“Exactly!” Tori points at me triumphantly. “That’s the whole point! No one messes with Banks. He’s huge, he’s scary, and he’s got a reputation for being protective. If the guys thought you two were together, they’d back off immediately. They wouldn’t dare mess with you.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she keeps going.
“You wouldn’t have to actually date him. You’d just have to, like, stand near him sometimes. Let him glare at anyone who looks at you wrong. Maybe hold hands in the hallway.”
“Hold hands,” I repeat flatly, my brain spiraling.What would that even be like? To touch a giant beast of a man like Banks… I can’t even really imagine it.
“Or whatever. Put your hand on his arm. Sit next to him at lunch. The point is visibility. Make them think you’re his, and no one will touch you.”
“This is insane.”
“It’s genius.”
“Well, there’s no way he’d agree to it.” I shake my head. “We’re not friends. We’re barely acquaintances. I can’t just walk up to him and say, ‘Hey, I know you don’t like talking to me, but want to pretend to be my boyfriend?’”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s humiliating!” The words come out louder than I intended. “I don’t want to beg some guy I barely know to protect me from his teammates. I came here to do a job, not to become someone’s damsel in distress.”
Tori’s expression softens. “You’re not a damsel. Sorry, I’m just… brainstorming.”
“Can we table this for now?” I ask. “I need to think. And drink more wine.”
“Of course.” She squeezes my hand once more, then releases it.
We finish the wine and move on to safer topics—her clinic, the stress of wedding planning, and a truly unhinged reality TV show we’re both obsessed with. By the time I leave, I’m warm, slightly tipsy, and almost convinced that everything will be fine.
Almost.
The drive home is quiet. I keep the radio off,letting my thoughts unspool in the darkness.
Banks Callahan.
It’s ridiculous. The whole idea is absurd.
But I can’t stop thinking about it.
The way he stood in that corner, arms crossed, watching. All six-foot-four of him, built like a brick wall, with that sharp jaw and those intense dark eyes. The way he didn’t hesitate to shut Grayson down. The way he asked if I was okay—gruff and awkward, sure, but genuine.
He’s terrifying. But maybe terrifying is exactly what I need.
No, I tell myself firmly as I pull into my parking spot.You’re not doing this. You’re going to figure out another way.
But as I lie in bed an hour later, staring at the ceiling, the idea keeps circling back.
What if it worked?
