by Emma Hart
“I think you’re full of crap.”
I turned, raising an eyebrow. “What?”
“It’s “excuse me,” not “what?” You’re not a hooligan.” Her eyes sparkled. “Kirsty told me what she did. That girl is a chip off the old block!”
Great. Now my loose-lipped, line-dancing great aunt was in on this thing. “She’s a pain in my damn ass,” I replied. “She has no idea what she’s doing.”
“I don’t know. It’s about time you got back out on the market before you go stale. Women are starting to date younger men, did you know that? I see it all the time on that celebrity channel with the housewives.”
I wasn’t going to ask what she was doing watching those shows. Probably getting inspiration for her own future toy boy. I wouldn’t put anything past her.
“I can’t say I follow celebrities much.” I turned and leaned against the counter. “I don’t know what Kirsty’s playing at, but I’m in the shit, especially if Mom falls in love with her. You know what she’s like.”
Aunt Pru’s eyes twinkled. “What if you fall in love with her?”
I gave her a withering look and moved to grab the clock. It was lighter than it looked, and I picked it up easily. “Not going to happen. She’s a great girl, but I don’t want a relationship right now.”
“I think the gentleman doth protest too much.”
“Isn’t that ‘the lady doth protest too much?’”
“Yes, but unless your penis has suddenly shriveled up inside you and you’ve grown yourself some ovaries, you’re not a lady, child.”
I was going to take back the times I’d told Lauren she was hard work—she was a delight compared to Pru.
“Whatever you say.” I hung the clock on the wall. “Is that straight?”
“Are you straight?”
“What?”
“You don’t want a relationship. Did that hooker mess you up so much that you’re now gay?”
Jesus. I needed a beer. “I’m straight,” I reassured her.
“I’ll accept you if you’re not, but you’re being written out of the will.”
“Aunt Pru.”
She cackled, rapping her knuckles against the table. “I’m joking. Don’t you think I’m funny?”
“My laughter is silent,” I said dryly. “Is that all? I can try online dating if I want to be ridiculed.”
“Aw, Mason, honey, you have to pay for that. I’m giving it to you for free.”
“Well, thank you for the weekly reminder to keep my ego in check.” I smirked, putting my drill back into its case. “Shall we do this the same time next week?”
“Yes.” She sat back with a smug look. “Bring cookies next time. I need sugar if I’m going to keep this up.”
“Noted.” I leaned over the table and kissed her cheek. “Don’t worry about getting up. I’ll see myself out.”
“Thank you, dear. Can you pick me up before dinner?”
I paused. “I’m taking Lauren.”
Aunt Pru’s eyes sparkled. “I know.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but she raised her eyebrows, and I knew when I was beaten.
I sighed. “I got you.”
***
MASON: I need to pick you up earlier than planned. My great aunt wants a ride.
I sent the text to Lauren as soon as I got home. I ordered a pizza and took a quick shower before I checked my phone and saw her response.
LAUREN: Is she the line-dancing one?
MASON: Yep. And she knows this isn’t real.
LAUREN: …
LAUREN: How?
MASON: My sister is going to kill me one day.
LAUREN: Don’t worry. I’ll write a eulogy from the perspective of a heartbroken girlfriend for your funeral. I’ll wear a face veil and everything.
MASON: Your devotion to me is inspiring. Do you say that to all the guys?
LAUREN: Sure do. It’s why I’m single. I say it to scare off the fuckboys. Apparently, it works a little too well.
I laughed as I got up to get my pizza from my front door. I wasn’t surprised at all about that—everything I knew about Lauren screamed that she was the kind of person who got what she wanted in the way she wanted it. Not in a throw-a-tantrum way, but the determined way.
If her first attempt didn’t work, she’d think up another way and try again. Rinse and repeat until she got what she wanted.
I admired that.
MASON: That’s one way to narrow the dating pool.
LAUREN: You’re the only one who’s stuck around, but you kinda have to.
MASON: People always want what they can’t have. Want me to flaunt you like girls on Instagram flaunt their asses?
LAUREN: Do you follow lots of those girls?
MASON: No. Sadly, my grandpa does, and he likes to share.
LAUREN: The leather-wearing one?
MASON: Would you be surprised if I said yes?
LAUREN: Absolutely not.
LAUREN: And no flaunting needed. I’m not a surgically enhanced chest.
MASON: I think I’m getting used to your weird comparisons because I didn’t even blink twice at that.
LAUREN: It’s one of the best things about me. I’m like a tray of brownies. You don’t get to the really good bits until you reach the middle of it.
MASON: What if I prefer the crispy edges?
LAUREN: Then we’re a fake match made in heaven. You can have the devil’s brownies, and I’ll have the soft, gooey ones in the middle.
MASON: Done.
LAUREN: Good. This is going well already. I can’t wait for our first real fight.
MASON: We had it already. Yesterday. When your cat sat on my head.
LAUREN: Don’t take it personally. Henry sits on everyone’s head. It’s like his asshole way of showing affection. He’s sitting on mine right now.
MASON: It’s his way of showing affection?
Her reply was a photo of her and, yep, Henry was sitting on top of her head. He had one paw draped down the side of her face, resting on her cheek, and his tail was curled around her jaw.
She was right. That was an asshole way of showing affection.
MASON: I see. Is that like feline spooning?
LAUREN: I don’t know. I wake up with him tucked into my side. It’s the only action I get these days.
MASON: Didn’t you mention that you’re responsible for your own orgasms?
LAUREN: Yes, but I don’t do it in front of Henry. Have you ever had a cat watch you while you masturbate?
This was officially the single weirdest conversation I’d ever had with a woman—especially one I wasn’t dating and didn’t know all that well.
Yet, here we were. Talking about cats and masturbation. Although I suppose I was the idiot who brought it up.
MASON: I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.
LAUREN: It’s the least pleasurable thing you’ll ever do. I lock him out now. There’s nothing like looking up mid-orgasm and being judged by a cat on top of your dresser.
MASON: So not only does Henry sit on people’s heads, he’s also a voyeur.
LAUREN: Basically. He’s a furry little pervert. Don’t show him your grandpa’s video, whatever you do.
MASON: There go my plans for tomorrow. I was going to come over and give him a private show.
LAUREN: If you do that and I find cat boy juice in my shoes again, I will rain hell upon your life.
MASON: I’m going to skip over the ‘cat boy juice’ thing and ask how you’re going to rain hell upon my life, because that sounds both terrifying and intriguing.
LAUREN: I’ll send you dirty pictures that are both real and fake and you’ll have to figure out which ones belong to me and which ones I stole from the internet.
LAUREN: And I’ll caption each one with a possessive fake girlfriend line so you get really turned on.
MASON: All I hear from this is that I get dirty pictures of you.
LAUREN: Do you want dirty pictures of me?
MAS
ON: I’m a single, twenty-eight-year-old man who hasn’t had sex in months. Let me go ahead and turn you down right now.
LAUREN: I don’t appreciate your sarcasm. For that, there will be no dirty pictures.
MASON: Has anyone ever told you that you’re ridiculous?
LAUREN: Yes. You. Several times. Are you sure you’re not seventy-eight with that memory loss?
MASON: You’re feisty tonight.
LAUREN: I’m feisty every night. I think I was a redhead in another life.
LAUREN: Or an English king. Those guys were feisty AF.
MASON: They also pretty much tried to take over the world in a murderous rage.
LAUREN: Wow. I’m really not as mysterious as I thought. Can’t you leave some secrets between us? To keep the magic alive?
MASON: Sorry. I’ll pretend I don’t know about your secret plans for world domination.
LAUREN: Thank you.
LAUREN: I have to get back to work. Keep that a secret and I’ll see that my fleet of white tigers make sure they know you’re not dinner.
MASON: You’re so generous, Your Majesty.
Her final response was a series of winking emojis with their tongues out, and I burst into laughter. In fact, I’d laughed so fucking hard the entire time I’d basically done an abs workout.
And my pizza was cold.
Goddamn it. The woman was a distraction. A fucking hilarious, beautiful distraction.
I was in so, so much trouble with her. There was no use denying it. She was a little ball of quirkiness in a sarcastic, playful bow. I had no idea where she came up with the shit that came out of her mouth, but I didn’t think we’d had a single conversation where she hadn’t made me laugh.
I didn’t let pizza go cold for just anyone.
I hadn’t even realized it was going cold.
I’d just sat down and replied to her, and now, here I was, thirty minutes later, with a cold fucking pizza.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I needed a miracle if I was going to get through this unscathed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN – LAUREN
“Help me out, you jerks!” I shook my phone as if to make my point.
Tina leaned forward on the screen. “Are you wearing your good bra?”
Madi did the same, and I got an unfortunate look up her nostrils. “That’s the good bra! I thought you weren’t being physical with him?”
I scowled. “I’m not. Can’t a girl wear a good bra on a fake date with her fake boyfriend?”
“I don’t know. Are there rules on fake boyfriends?”
Tina shrugged. “Never needed to know. Anyone want me to Google?”
“This is ridiculous. Do not Google it.” I shook my head and propped my phone up on my dresser so they could still see me but I had my hands free. “Look. Black dress with the twirly skirt, or the pink dress I wore to his reunion.”
Madi wrinkled her face up. “The pink looks great on you, but won’t he think you don’t have another dress?”
“Do guys even notice that?” Tina asked, cocking her head. “Honestly, when I dated that guy, Keiron, I wore the same dress on our first and third date by accident and he didn’t notice.”
“That’s because it was the blue dress that shows off your boobs,” Madi replied. “None of Lauren’s dresses show off her boobs.”
I scowled. “We’re not dissecting my wardrobe and what it does and doesn’t show. Which. Dress?”
“Oooh, you’re testy tonight. The pink one.”
Tina nodded. “I agree. The pink does look really good on you.”
I sighed. “I know. But, Teen, the only reason Keiron didn’t notice about the dress is because he was a fuckboy. Mason isn’t a fuckboy.”
“And you base that on, what? One date and a chat in your bar?” Madi asked.
“No. I base it on one date, a chat in my bar, lunch, and an hour at my apartment, plus a bunch of text chats.”
“You’re spending a lot of time talking for people who are fake dating.”
She was not wrong.
We were.
I didn’t quite know how I felt about it, to be honest. We had to have a certain ease with each other so that his parents would believe we were actually dating, but it was… too easy.
Like binge-watching an entire season of your favorite show for the fiftieth time.
Easy. Comfortable. Natural.
I was terrified.
I was probably the only woman I knew who didn’t have a type. Dark hair, light hair, no hair—tall, not so tall, muscular, lean, whatever. All I cared about was that someone could make me laugh.
Anyone who could handle my weird sense of humor and make me laugh was a winner in my book.
AKA, that was Mason.
Which meant Mason was a problem.
A tall, dark, sexy problem.
“Listen, jerks,” I said, waggling my finger at my phone camera. “We’re not talking about that. He’s going to be here any minute, and I don’t have anything to wear!”
Tina rolled her eyes. “You have plenty to wear; you’re just not wearing it.”
Madi nodded. “Go with the pink. It’s your color. It’s the dress you feel most confident in!”
“And you need to be confident when you meet your fake boyfriend’s family, especially since you’re crushing hard on him.”
“So hard.”
“We’re done here. You can both fuck off. You’re not helping at all.” I hung up, but not before the sound of them both laughing filled my room. My phone beeped as the call disconnected, and I groaned, dropping back onto my bed.
This was so fucked up.
So. Fucked. Up.
It didn’t matter what I wore. I was going to meet these people twice. None of them cared what I wore. None of them even needed to like me by the end of the weekend.
So why did I care?
Were Tina and Madi right? Was it because I had a crush on Mason?
Oh, my God.
They were.
I did.
I had a crush on Mason.
My cheeks burned, and I clapped my hands over them. Like that would stop it happening. I was mortified at myself and the fact it’d taken me so long to figure that out.
Of course I had a crush on him! He was handsome. I was attracted to him. He made me laugh. And I had to pretend to be his girlfriend… After setting boundaries that he wasn’t allowed to kiss me.
Breaking news: Lauren Green was a Class A moron.
Probably not breaking news to my friends who had, apparently, figured this out before me.
How had I not even noticed? Was I so focused on faking everything that I was ignoring my very real vagina tingles toward him?
I was.
I was a terrible excuse for a fake girlfriend.
Sweet baby Jesus, this whole thing was going to Hell in a handbasket, and nobody was navigating it.
Now, I had to pretend like I didn’t want to make out with him like a couple of teenagers.
Great.
There was so much fakery going on even a reality show would be embarrassed to air this.
Oh, come on. Everyone knows reality shows aren’t actually real.
Three loud knocks sounded at my front door.
“Shit!” I was still standing in my underwear with my hands on my cheeks. I was officially out of time. Mason was here, and I was panicking in the middle of my room like standing here and doing nothing would solve all my problems.
Spoiler alert, it would not.
Two more knocks.
“Hold on!” I yelled as loud as I could and grabbed the nearest dress to me, which happened to be the pink one.
The one with a zip on the back.
I didn’t have time to tie a string around the zipper to pull it up, so I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I yanked the dress up my body, pulled the zip up as far as I could, and ran to the front door, holding the fabric over my bra.
Which I still had to take the straps off.
> Oh, my God.
This was a nightmare. I would be mad, but it was entirely of my own making.
Apparently, organization and decision-making were not my strong suits.
I opened the door, clutching tightly at the top of the dress. “Hi,” I said breathlessly.
Mason dropped his eyes to where I was holding my dress. “Problem?”
“Yes. The person who thought of putting a zipper on the back of a dress was either a sadist, a contortionist, or a man.”
“Probably a man.” He was trying not to laugh as he stepped inside. “Turn around. I’ll zip you up.”
I blew out a breath and swept my hair to the side so he could. His fingers brushed up my spine as he dragged the zipper pull up to the top, and the warmth of his breath tickled across my shoulder before he stepped away.
“Done,” he said in a low voice.
I swallowed. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” It was a little gruff, and he cleared his throat as he stepped back. “Is that the dress you wore to the reunion?”
Pausing, I looked over my shoulder. “Yes. Why?”
He shrugged. “Just wondering. It looks good.”
My cheeks flushed. “Thanks. Give me a second, and I’ll be ready. Did you already pick up your aunt?”
“No, but she’s called five times.”
“Am I running that late?”
“No. I’m ten minutes early. She probably wants me to smuggle in tequila so she doesn’t have to pay the restaurant prices,” he said with a wry smile. “It’s why I’m ignoring her.”
