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“I know.” I shrug unapologetically and shimmy.
Tristan’s deep laugh washes over me, warming my stomach like hot cider on a cold winter night. He makes me feel seen and special.
The more time I spend with him, the more I forget that this is a set-up. It’s easy to get lost in him and his good looks and charming personality. But there’s more at stake than a relationship with him. His dream—and my heart.
“Darn,” Tristan mumbles when he walks past his parents, and his mom calls for him.
“We’re here, sweetie,” she smiles.
It’s almost like she’s trying too hard.
“Oh, yeah.” He looks at her without a trace of humor.
I reach for his hand and squeeze it, hoping it provides some comfort. He looks over at me with an intense gaze. It makes me want to pull him away and kiss him, but I can’t. I’m not really his girlfriend, and I’m having trouble remembering that.
I need to focus on the plan. His parents are right in front of us.
Tristan gives me a lopsided smile and wraps his fingers through mine. I shiver at the way his calloused fingers stroke mine in a rough and masculine way.
“Do you want a soda?” He leans down and whispers.
His breath is a caress against the shell of my ear. I need to stop thinking about him as more than my fake boyfriend, or I’m going to lose my mind.
“Yes, please.” I smile sweetly.
My heart is thundering. My palms are sweaty. Maybe I shouldn’t hold his hand. He’s going to get grossed out. No one wants to hold a sweaty hand.
Deep breaths, Sage.
I feel myself relax. Tristan waves a server over and orders a soda for me, and takes a glass of champagne for himself. His parents are talking to another couple beside us, giving me a moment of reprieve.
“Now’s the time to make an escape,” he whispers.
I chuckle at his train of thought. “They’ll come after you.”
“They probably won’t let us get more than two steps away.”
I laugh, snorting, and cover my face. My eyes widen as I look around and hope no one heard. No one except Tristan, who throws his head back and guffaws. People look at him, and my face heats with embarrassment. At least they don’t know why he’s laughing.
“That was adorable,” he says, still laughing.
“So adorable,” I deadpan.
“Sage,” Mr. Remington faces me. “My friend hasn’t received your resume yet.”
“Oh.” I wrack my brain for an acceptable excuse.
I don’t think saying that my resume disintegrated like radioactive decay would be a good one.
Thankfully, Tristan beats me to it before I make a fool of myself.
“Dad, this isn’t the time or place to talk about that. We’re here for leisure, not business. Let’s have fun, yeah?” He’s firm in his words but smiles as if he just told him his favorite football team won the Super Bowl.
“Right.” His dad nods, drinking his champagne.
His jaw is tight, likely not happy that Tristan stopped his conversation but not willing to make a scene in public.
“Sorry about that.” Tristan squeezes my hand and whispers in my ear.
