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My brain fully stutters at the question. Or the statement, maybe. I stare down at the phone like maybe I fabricated the words together myself.

“Wha-what?”

“Tomorrow night. Let me take you out.”

I stay so still that it’s like Knox can see it when he calls out, “Felicity?”

“I’m still here, I just—”

“We’ve got to start somewhere, right?”

Oh. The practice dating…

“Right, yes.” My breath is a whoosh, maybe relieved and maybe a little something else.

“So, tomorrow works?”

“Sure, where should we go? The diner has a Pork-O’clock promotion where you can get half off fried pork chops after four.”

“I don’t know what your expectations on this whole experiment are, but I need you to raise them if you think I’m letting our first date be at a Pork-O’clock dinner.”

I like how he says “our first date” like this is real. Like he takes it seriously. My smile ticks up.

“Okay.” I bite the head of my pencil around my smile. “You pick it all out.”

“I already have. Night, Felicity.”

Chapter Eleven Knox

How much cologne is too much cologne?

I spray once. Sniff. Spray again. Sniff. Now I’m just marinating in it, I think.

I squint at my reflection in the bathroom mirror like I’m conducting a scientific experiment. There’s a thin line between suave and eye-watering, and I’m pretty sure I’ve pole-vaulted over it. Any second now, Lottie is going to leave her room to ask who scent-bombed the house, and I’m going to have to own up to my mistakes.

I run the tap and splash my neck to dilute the scent. It sort of works. Or now it just smells like cologne and sink water, which is…a choice.

I blow out a breath and study myself again.

My hair is pretty good. Well—decent. It does the swoopy thing Felicity said once “looks like it has its own opinions.” Which never felt like a compliment or an insult. My hoodie is clean, I scrubbed out all oil stains under my fingers—or as much as I could anyway—and put on the best jeans that fit my butt. That shouldn’t be a huge concern, and yet it was pretty high up on my list of priorities before leaving to pick her up. I glance down, boots…not too muddy. That’s a win, right?

I grip the edges of the sink. It’s a practice date for crying out loud. A fake date. A training exercise like we’re prepping for romantic combat.

Except my chest is doing that slow, burning thud thing that has nothing to do with pretend. And Walker’s words keep coming back to me, shouting that I need to make practices like this count. I need to impress her so much on these dates that when she—gag—does go out with someone else, she will spend the whole date comparing the two of us.

For tonight’s date, I did something so fully 180 that it’s going to have to throw Felicity off-kilter. There’s a select handful of haunted houses nearby, one at a massive chicken coop, another at an abandoned car lot, and a couple at community centers for children. All of those felt like I would (a) have a heart attack and Felicity would have to carry me out, or (b) feel like I’m taking her to a children’s event for our first date. Which I refuse to do.

There was, however, a local ad about the nearest community college frat that said they were turning their house into a haunted house, and that felt like a good medium.

I know the real haunted house is coming later, though—the one where I have to hand Felicity over to some guy who gets to look at her the way I’m not supposed to. Hold her hand the way I’m pretending not to want to.

But for tonight, she’s mine. Even if it’s temporary, and even if it’s just for practice. I get to step into this role of boyfriend material, and I can’t let the opportunity slip.

The goal is simple, and I run it over in my head again and again:

Get her mind off friendship.

Throw her off balance.