Page 33 of Enchanted to Meet You

Rhys let out a low laugh, leaning both elbows over the mower handle. “We won 2-1. Check the scoreboard.”

My pulse did a strange, unwelcome jump against my ribs. I wasn’t supposed to look, but my eyes traitorously tracked over him anyway. He looked ridiculously athletic standing under the fading sun. His hair was damp, pushed back off his forehead, the moisture making it look a deep, rich brown instead of its usual light, dirty blonde. There was a faint smudge of lawn dirt high on his left cheekbone, and a thin sheen of sweat ran down the line of his throat. Every time he shifted his weight, the heavy muscles in his shoulders flexed under his skin.

I bit the inside of my lip, forcing my gaze down toward my trainers. Stop looking, I told myself sharply. He was my brother’s archnemesis. He was the guy Sebastian spent half his life complaining about. The fact that I was secretly fake-dating him didn’t give me permission to start ogling the sweat running down his collarbone.

I was so focused on not looking at Rhys that I didn’t hear my brother’s response, but I did hear Rhys as he responded, “If you need help learning how to score under pressure, I’m free Tuesdays. I can set up some cones in your driveway. Your little sisters can watch and take notes.”

My stomach flipped. Little sisters.

Rhys gave a subtle tilt of his head as he said it. His green eyes flicked past Sebastian’s shoulder and locked directly onto mine for a fraction of a second—a quiet, dangerous reminder of the secret we were keeping right under my family’s nose. My heart hammered against my chest. He was playing with fire, standing on his lawn in a sweaty tank top, provoking my brother while secretly holding the leash to our fake relationship.

“Stay on your side of the road,” Sebastian snapped. “And if you bring that loud piece of junk near my property, I’ll throw it in the pond!”

“Try it,” Rhys said, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “I’ll make you push it back up the hill yourself. Build up those soft legs.”

“My legs ran circles around your midfield for ninety minutes,” Sebastian countered, stepping an inch closer to the street. “You were gasping for air by the seventy-fifth, you absolute⁠—”

“See you next Wednesday, Novak,” Rhys interrupted, turning his back on us before Sebastian could even finish his insult and grabbing the mower handles properly. “Try not to trip over your own feet this time.”

He shoved the mower forward, the heavy blades cutting a clean line through the grass as he completely ignored us.

Sebastian stood at the bottom of the driveway for a few seconds, his chest rising and falling as he stared across the street. “Gosh, he is an insufferable prick,” he grumbled, turning on his heel and marching back up toward the car. “Every time he opens his mouth, I want to hit him.”

“You love it,” Lavender teased, bumping his shoulder. “You’d be bored without him.”

“I would thrive,” Sebastian insisted, taking a long and aggressive gulp of his drink. I pulled my sweater sleeves down over my hands, my face still burning hot. I took one last, quick glance down the street.

Rhys was turning the mower around at the edge of his lawn. As he pulled the machine back, he raised two fingers to his forehead and flashed a tiny, quiet salute straight toward me and mouthed, “See you tonight.”

It was fast, subtle, and completely out of Sebastian’s line of sight. But as his eyes met mine across the dark asphalt, I knew exactly who it was for.

eleven

The clock on the dance studio wall read 5:48 PM, and my calves were threatening to give up. I leaned against the barre, unlacing my pointe shoes with fingers that were trembling slightly from a grueling two-hour technique class. Around me, the other girls were packing up in a hazy flurry of chatter, zipper sounds, and the sharp scent of hairspray and peppermint foot rub.

“Ainsley, you coming with us to grab smoothies?” Sarah asked, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder as she zipped her duffel.

“Can’t,” I said, trying to make my voice sound normal while my stomach executed a series of backflips that had nothing to do with ballet. “I have... plans.”

“With Imogen?”

“No. Just... a thing.”

I didn’t wait for her to pry further. I shoved my pointe shoes into my bag, grabbed my bulky duffel, and practically bolted down the hallway toward the small, tiled bathroom at the back of the studio.

My heart was hammering against my ribs. I locked myself in a stall and unzipped my bag, hauling out the clothes I’d stuffed under everything else as if I thought someone was going to be checking my bag for contraband. A thick, oversized knit sweater in a shade of deep crimson that was dangerously close to Crofton High’s primary red and a pair of denim cutoffs.

I peeled off my leotard and damp tights, shrugging into the sweater. It swallowed me whole, the sleeves dragging past my knuckles. I pulled my hair out of its tight ballet bun, shaking it out until it fell in soft, loose waves over my shoulders. As I stared at myself in the cracked mirror above the sink, I felt a sudden, terrifying wave of cognitive dissonance.

I looked like a girl going to support her boyfriend at a rival school’s soccer game.

“You’re acting,” I told my reflection sternly. “It’s a game. You’re doing this so Kelcey doesn’t suspect anything.”

My phone vibrated violently against the porcelain sink.

That Guy

She’s outside. White BMW. Don’t make her wait or she’ll complain about it for the next three hours.