Big Rock(10)

She worries away at the corner of her lip. It’s kind of ridiculously cute. Like, if she were really my fiancée, I’d probably think that was adorable, and I would lean in for a quick peck.

“That’s for three minutes, at the most, at a bar,” she points out. “That’s just a quick wham bam, thank you, ma’am kind of thing to save each other from unwanted advances. For this I’d have to keep it up for a week, you’re saying? Under scrutiny? Of the press, your parents, your dad’s buyer, and everyone else? I just think you’re asking for trouble.”

“Yes, but who knows me better than you? You’re the only person who could possibly pull this off,” I say, and as a new rush of customers streams into the tiny coffee shop, we head out, making our way back toward her building, coffee cups in hand as we walk.

“I want to help you. You know I do. I just think everyone will know we’re not really engaged, and then that’s not helpful to you at all.”

Undeterred, I press on. “Then let’s have a debrief. Especially since I’m supposed to buy you a ring at two p.m.” Her eyes go wide, and I keep reassuring her. “Let’s go over every single thing we need to know.”

“Like what toothpaste I use, and whether you hog the sheets?”

“I don’t hog the sheets,” I say as we sidestep a husband and wife, each wearing babies in Bj?rns and arguing about where to brunch.

“And I use minty-fresh Crest. The teeth-whitening kind,” she says. “But let’s be honest. That’s not what anyone is going to ask. Also, have you thought about how you’re going to survive a week or more without your favorite pastime?” she says, as an evil glint lights up her brown eyes.

“I can handle being celibate.”

She nods. “Sure. Keep telling that to yourself.” She stops and points at me. “But I’m serious—if I do this, you better not mess around with anyone else after hours.”

Hope bounces wildly in my chest. “Does that mean you’re saying yes?”

She shakes her head. “Not yet. I’m just pointing out another potential roadblock for you. It’s going to be a loooong seven days for you,” she says, elbowing me in the ribs. “Besides, how are you going to manage the fact that you were basically publicly dating a few weeks ago? What are you going to tell your dad and his buyer about that? Or how about the woman you saw in Miami a month ago at the restaurant opening?”

I wave a hand like the escape artist I am. “Leave it to the master. If anything comes up about that celebrity trainer, I’ll just deny it. No one believes the gossip rags anyway. And the Miami thing was just a friendly, posed photo. Besides, I already devised a perfect story of how we fell in love. I told my dad it happened quickly. In just a few weeks, in fact, and that I proposed to you last night because I realized after all these years that I’d been in love with you the whole time.”

“The whole time?” she asks, lifting an eyebrow.

I shrug playfully. “The whole damn time. I’ve been head over heels. It finally dawned on me what I was feeling, and I got down on one knee to make you mine.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, just parts her lips, and I stare at them for longer than usual. They are really pretty lips. I mean, from an empirical point of view. As her fake fiancé, it’s good for me to be knowledgeable about all her features, including her lips.

Assuming she says yes. She has to say yes.

“That’s actually a sweet story,” she says, her voice completely sincere as we stand on the corner of her block, holding each other’s gaze. “A true friends-to-lovers romance?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, breaking the eye contact because it’s a bit too much for me to handle right now. I have no clue why it feels weird, whether it’s the words or the way she looks at me.

Or really, why I feel weird at all.

We keep walking, and she takes a hearty gulp of her coffee. She straightens her spine and draws in a breath, and I cross my fingers that she’s about to agree.

“I want to help you, but…” she says, her voice trailing off.

My chest craters. Like, worse than those deflated balloons. I am out of air. I’m going to have to tell my dad the engagement ended before it even started, hang my head, cry in my soup, and claim Charlotte dumped me and broke my heart.

“Crap,” she mutters. “Incoming douche.”

It’s the total * himself. Bradley “Bend Her Over The Counter” Buckingham walks toward us. He hates me. Not that I give a shit, but he detests me because I had the audacity to advise Charlotte against buying an apartment with him. It didn’t make financial sense to go in together in this building when other residences in the hood were increasing in value faster.

He’s about six feet, which makes him two inches shorter than me. He has blondish-red hair, broad shoulders, and the cheesy grin of a vacuum cleaner salesman. He works in PR. He’s senior VP of Communications for a huge pharmaceutical company that’s always under fire. King of Spin. Ace of Liars. Captain of Scum.

“Charlotte!” he calls out, waving to her. “Did you get the balloons?”

He pulls up next to us, barely making eye contact with me.

“They didn’t fit in the elevator, but it really doesn’t matter. You need to stop sending me gifts. It’s over with us. In fact,” she says, and reaches out to grab my free hand, threading her fingers through mine and surprising the f*ck out of me, since she’s not a hand-holder, “I’m engaged to Spencer now.”