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“I’ll be your fake girlfriend.” I stretch my hand out with more determination.
“I didn’t ask you to be my fake girlfriend. I told you I’ll take care of it.”
I tap my chin. “We’ll need to come up with a meet cute,” I say.
“A what?” he snaps.
“A meet cute. We locked eyes across a crowded room and knew we were fated mates, or we were strangers on a train and wound up talking for hours and walking the streets of Austria all night, only to meet six months later in the exact same spot. Or… oh!” I frame a shot with my hands. “We reached for the same pair of black cashmere gloves at a department store and it was the last one, so we tried to decide who got to keep them by spending an enchanting evening having coffee, ice skating, and writing our phone numbers in classic novels.”
“That seems oddly specific and asinine.”
Hmmm. What else?
“We could go for the classic Holiday trope. Me and another troubled woman, sad and disenchanted with our lives, decided to swap houses during Christmas. You, her handsome brother, came to visit her quintessential English country cottage. But you’re surprised to see me there. Then I realized you’re the guy for me because you made me cry for the first time ever.”
“Not only does that sound horrific, it’s incredibly unbelievable.”
“I suppose time travel is out of the question?”
“The whole idea is out of the question.”
“At least we got the first kiss out of the way. That one’s always a doozy in the fake dating trope.”
“There will be no fake dating or cute meets—”
“Meet cutes,” I correct.
He covers his entire face with his gloriously large hands and breathes in and out. In and out. Then uses those same hands to pull fistfuls of his hair.
“It’ll be okay,” I assure him. “Turn that frown upside down.”
He slams his hands on the desk and grits his teeth. Did someone say his name three times to summon Chef Crabby Cakes?
“I’ll think of something on my own. A break-up story. I don’t need you to play-act a part.”
“Listen.” I stuff my hands in my apron pocket. “I know how this goes down. You toldthe whole mishpocha you have a long-term girlfriend. They lose their minds over it, calling all the relatives and neighbors. Then all of a sudden you and your mystery girlfriend suspiciously break up? One, your family won’t believe you ever really had a girlfriend, or two, they’ll burn you at the stake.”
“Not if we break things off amicably,” he says through his teeth. I can tell he’s trying so hard to keep his cool.
“Meanwhile I still work here.”
He shrugs. “So?”
“It would be awkward.”
Ignacio lifts one brow and watches me for a long moment. His gaze is charged—or maybe it’s just my imagination. But there’s something behind those steel-gray eyes that shoot right to my feels. Like he’s downloading a shmexy virus in my system. Beep boop beep.
“And how long would we have to keep up this ruse? Until you don’t work here anymore?”
The computer chip, or whatever thing is buried in my body, swoops down and crashes behind my ribs. I don’t want to think about not working here. Not while I’m still figuring out what I want to do with my life.
But I shrug, like I’m all casual about it. “Until it’s not awkward anymore.”
He grunts. “Thanks, but no.” He goes back to whatever work he has on his desk. “Keep the door open on your way out.”
Okay, he’s not going for my offer. And if I’m honest, it is kind of ridiculous. But he can’t just dismiss me this way.
“What about my schedule? You said—”
