Except . . .

  There’s one little issue.

  He’s had a girlfriend for a chunk of the time we’ve worked together, so we’ve been friends.

  Just friends.

  That’s why I stomped on my crush. I stubbed it out so hard that I stopped thinking of him that way. Now he is only and absolutely a friend. The kind of friend I want to keep.

  So it’s with only a friendly curiosity that I latch onto Eddie’s comment, meeting Gavin’s blue-eyed gaze as I ask, “What do you need a date for?”

  “Well, it’s not really a date,” Gavin says quickly. I try not to let the cheetah speed of his response bother me. Who cares that he sees me as undateable?

  “Ha! Yeah! Exactly. No real dates going on here,” Eddie says chuckling, as if the idea of dating me is the height of comic relief.

  Gavin gives his best friend a sharp stare.

  “You’re friends. You’re one of the buds,” Eddie explains, smacking me on the arm. “That’s why you’re perfect for this. Our guy here needs a fake date because his mom is riding his ass about his single status.”

  “Ah, the plot thickens,” I say in my best spooky voice. It’s better than letting on that Eddie’s comments bum me the hell out, since he obviously knows Gavin’s true heart.

  “My mom is definitely on my case. I have to go to my sister’s engagement party, and she wants to set me up with about a million women from the neighborhood. And I’m just not into my mom setting me up,” Gavin says with a casual shrug.

  I drum my fingers on the bar, understanding his situation. “If I let my mother set me up, I would be dating the butcher.”

  “The butcher? Why?” Gavin asks.

  “She works right next door to him, and she’s convinced he’s the perfect man for me.”

  “You don’t even like meat,” Gavin says, with an inquisitive lift of his eyebrow.

  “Exactly!”

  “So, again, why the butcher?”

  I wave a hand airily. “Seems he’s interested in getting married, and like most mothers, mine is obsessed with grandkids, so she figures if I take up with the butcher, I’ll be popping out a baby nine months later.”

  Eddie rubs his hands together. “The butcher is knocking up Savannah on their wedding night. Go, meat man!”

  I scan the bar for my friends, since we’re meeting for a game of pool. Neither is here yet, though, so I stick with the guys. “What is it about moms that makes them want to set you up? And usually with the completely wrong type of person.”

  Gavin’s blue eyes twinkle as if we’re speaking the same language. “Right? Because we spend our whole lives trying to avoid being our parents or having the same taste as them. And then all they want to do is meddle in our love lives.”

  “So it’s settled, then.” Eddie claps Gavin on the back and squeezes my shoulder. “You guys will be fake dates.”

  Eddie raises a finger, signaling the bartender, and as he places an order, Gavin looks at me, vulnerability in his crystal blue eyes. “Do you mind though?”

  My heart beats a little faster, and my pulse hammers a little harder, all from the way he looks at me. Like he cares about me. Like he wants to make sure I’m truly good with this. “No, I really don’t mind. I mean, that’s what friends are for, right?”

  He drags his hand across his forehead like he’s relieved. “Yeah. And you are an awesome friend, Savannah. I am so grateful. I’m just not ready to go to this event and have my mom arrange a plus-one.”

  “And you’re probably not even ready to date again,” I offer, and then I wonder why I’m saying that. Why am I pointing out that it’s too soon? Oh right, I’m doing it because it’s my armor. Buckle it on, tighten it up. I need the steel covering to protect myself, lest he realizes I once wanted more from him.

  “I haven’t really dated since Denise left,” he says.

  The mention of her name makes my jaw tick. I hate that Denise hurt him. How could she not see what she had in front of her? Ingrate.

  “I hear ya. You’re not ready to get back out there,” I say.

  “Exactly. But I do need help. You don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind at all,” I say, as the front door swings open and I spot a mane of chestnut hair and a pair of big green eyes. My cousin, Emerson. “Listen, Em’s here, but we should come up with a plan. Backstory and all that.”

  “Let’s make a date,” he says, then corrects himself. “I mean, to plan our backstory.”

  We agree to meet before the party to spin our fairy tale, and I tell myself I don’t care that it’s all make-believe.

  4

  Savannah

  Emerson arches a brow as she pulls back the pool cue, giving me an “I can’t believe you did that” lecture with just one look. I suspect I’m about to receive an earful too.

  “So, let me get this straight,” she says, eyeing the red ball as she lines up her shot. “The guy you’re into asked you to go on a fake date.”

  I gulp, then put on my best confident face. “Yes. He did. But I’m not into him anymore.”

  “Right.” She studies the table then meets my gaze. “And you said yes?”

  “I said yes.”

  She nods like a professor employing the Socratic method. “And you thought this was a good idea?”

  I lift my chin. “Sure. He needs help.”

  “And you don’t think that’s a recipe for disaster?”

  “Why would it be?”

  She shoots me another knowing look. “Gee, I wonder.”

  I try to make light of my decision. It’s going to be fine. I’ve been friends with Gavin for a while now, and it’s all good. “We both know the score,” I say, leaning on my pool cue. “Besides, it wasn’t even really him who asked, so it’s not like it means anything.”

  Emerson pulls back the cue and lightly taps the white ball, sending the red one rolling across the green felt and into the corner pocket.

  “Nice.” Even though we’re competing with each other, I can’t help but admire such a beautiful shot.

  I was raised by parents who made pool balls, bocce balls, and croquet balls. I was encouraged in all leisure pursuits from a young age, ranging from music to crochet to pool. Because I’m an awesome cousin, I taught Emerson how to play.

  “Thanks,” she says and returns to the topic. “And this fake date—it wasn’t even arranged by the guy you crush on, but by Eddie? He had the bright idea for Gavin to take you to his sister’s engagement party?”

  “Yes. It’ll be fun,” I say, all cheery and peppy. But I do think the party will be entertaining. “Gav and I have a great time together. We have fun when we grab lunch, and we had a blast playing badminton on the company team. He’s a good, good friend.”

  Emerson smirks, nodding several times as she lines up her next shot. “Oh, yeah. He’s a great friend. A friend you harbor no feelings for or fantasies about. Just like Nolan and me.”

  I laugh, then point a finger at her. “See! You admit it. You have a crush on your co-host and everything’s fine,” I say. She’s been hosting a food show on YouTube with her best friend for a year, and the show is rising up in the online world. I’m seriously proud of her.

  She laughs a little humorlessly. “Yes, it’s fabulous lusting after my best friend and business partner.”

  But the thing is—I’ve so got this. I just need to convince her so she won’t worry. “If I was able to shut my feelings down the entire time he was involved with Denise, I can do it now. And the party will be fun.”

  “You don’t think it’ll be, how shall we say, tempting?” Her lips go all sexy pouty, making it clear exactly where she thinks the party will lead.

  Scoffing, I shake my head. “It’s just a party. Now, come on, keep going,” I say, urging her to take another shot.

  She works her way around the table, and when she misses the purple ball, it’s my turn, and I angle myself toward the middle pocket.

  But before I can start, she beckons me, her fingers waggling, and dresses her voice in a whisper. “Don’t let him take advantage of you.”

  My brow knits. “What do you mean? How the hell is he going to take advantage of me?”

  “Who’s taking advantage of whom?” The bold question comes from our friend Jo, who’s just sauntered in, looking both fashionable and classy in a bright blue blouse. “Tell me everything.”

  “If you’re going to arrive late, you’re not going to get all the details,” Emerson says, chiding her playfully before she points my way. “Gavin Clements just asked Savannah to be his fake date for his sister’s engagement party, and I don’t want him to take advantage of her soft, gooey side.”

  I roll my eyes again. “We’re just friends. I’m going with him as just a friend. Don’t you understand that I can actually just be friends with him without it turning into anything more? There is nothing soft and gooey going on. Also, gross.”

  Jo smirks then holds up her fingers. She counts off on three of them. “Three times. You just said you’re just friends three times.”

  “Because we are friends,” I insist.

  Emerson winks at me. “Sure. We get it.”

  Jo whispers, “Romances do start that way.”

  I wave the stick at the two of them, poking Jo’s arm then Emerson’s hip. “In books! Not in life. You two think everything is going to turn into something.” A poke in the thigh. “Sometimes things turn into nothing.” A poke on the wrist. “Only true, crazy romantics would actually believe that something like pretending to be his date—at his sister’s engagement party, no less—would turn into anything more. That just doesn’t happen.”

  Jo smiles like she’s already seen my future. “I think that happens.”

  “Here’s what’s more likely,” I say, then boom, “NOTHING! One: I may not have mentioned this, but we’re friends. Two: we’re coworkers. Three: he’s not ready for more. Four: let’s focus on something useful, like how to make this fake date believable. Because, five, here’s how stuff works in the real world: he meets some hot girl online who looks just like the other girl he dated, he rebounds with her, and I continue providing a shoulder to lean on. Meanwhile, I eventually get over my crush on him and move on to a sexy, music-loving lumberjack, maybe. That’s how it works.”

  Emerson raises her hand. “I love the plan B. Lumberjacks are hot. But whether someone’s ready is a pointless argument. Love doesn’t come when anyone is ready. Love sneaks up and bites you on the ass at the most inconvenient times.”

  I pretend to check out my ass. “No love bites. Now, why don’t you two help me figure out how to handle this fake date.”

  Jo and Emerson slide into problem solving mode at the pool table, and I appreciate the change in focus.

  Emerson raises one finger. “I’ll do your makeup so you look gorgeous. But here’s the first tip: don’t let on that you want to have sex and make babies with him.”

  “I don’t!”

  “Don’t be too touchy-feely,” Jo puts in.

  “I wasn’t going to,” I insist.

  “But do be just touchy-feely enough,” Emerson adds. “A hand here, a brush there.”

  I set down my pool cue and cover my ears. “Stop. Just stop!” I uncover them. “You two are no help.”

  My friends laugh, then Emerson turns serious. “All you really need is a good backstory.”

  “That I can do.”

  “And that doesn’t sound like a romance novel at all,” Jo singsongs.

  I tap the felt. “Let’s play, so I can destroy you two.”

  I beat them at pool, forcing thoughts of storybook endings from my head.

  5

  Gavin

  I adjust my button-down in the mirror, run a hand through my dark hair, and give myself a thumbs-up.

  “It’s a little shocking to see myself in something other than a T-shirt, but I do rock a dress shirt,” I announce to the crowd of one.

  “Dude, you look like a billionaire!” Eddie calls out from the couch. “They wear buttons all the time.”

  I arch a brow. “Buttons? That’s the hallmark of a rich dude?”

  “Yes. Obviously.” He flubs his lips as he searches my Webflix queue on his laptop.

  I laugh, shaking my head at him. “Remind me again why you’re on my couch? You don’t even live here.”

  He pats the well-worn cushions. Well-worn from his ass parked on them all the time. “’Cause your place is awesome. You don’t mind if I crash here, do you?”

  “No. But what if I did?” I ask rhetorically.

  “Then we’d sit down and have a sesh, bro. We’d talk it out. Find some common ground.”

  “Excellent. Just making sure you had a strategy.”

  He taps his forehead. “I’m always thinking. And right now, I’m thinking you need to have some fucking fun tonight, man. You haven’t had much since you broke up with Denise.”

  “Correction—since Denise broke up with me.”

  He shakes his head vehemently. “I don’t see it that way. Sure, technically, it went down like that. But I like to think you broke up with her. Because that’s what you should have done months before. Like, right after you started up with her. She was no good for you.”

  I shoot him a curious glance. “Why is that?”

  “Because she wasn’t fun. She wasn’t funny. And she wasn’t friends with you.”

  I consider his assessment. Maybe he’s onto something. “So you’re saying it was never right with her?”

  “Never. I mean, she didn’t even laugh when I told her about the toilet plunger named Fred that I had to carry to work one day. And, admit it, that was best-story-ever level. Savannah cracked up when I told her about Fred.”

  Eddie works for a company that shoots industrial videos for tradesmen. I smile, remembering Savannah’s reaction the night Eddie waxed on and on about his boss requesting he pick up a plunger for a photoshoot.

  “Savannah did appreciate the story of Fred, true. She has a good sense of humor if she can tolerate you.”

  He smirks. “Exactly.” Then he points to the door. “Now, get the hell out of here. Have a good time with the Sav-meister. I’m going to watch some Webflix streaming on your TV.”

  “Enjoy my place.”

  He winks. “I always do.”

  As I walk through the neighborhood on my way to meet Savannah, I think back on the last two years of working together. We’ve checked out bands together, grabbed lunch in the middle of the day, beer after a show. We debated music and Brooklyn and books and which subway lines were the absolute worst, and what kind of flowers to plant on a rooftop terrace, since we both agreed that’s the Brooklyn dream. “Peonies, tulips, roses, you name it. I want them all in a rooftop garden. Maybe some rosemary and sage too,” she once said at lunch at a sandwich shop.

  “Confession: I have a flower connection. I can get you all those at a steal,” I told her. “My mom owns a flower shop.”

  She beamed. “Sold!”

  We were total buds, and I loved our friendship. But when Denise came into my life nine months ago, Savannah and I didn’t do as much of that any longer. Understandably, Denise didn’t want me hanging out with another woman.

  Come to think of it, I did miss Savannah’s company for a while there. She’s lighthearted, easygoing, and we always have something to talk about.

  Good thing I won’t have to worry about Denise’s opinion tonight.

  I head into the neighborhood bar to meet Savannah and work on our backstory. When I see her, seated on a barstool, her hair flowing past her shoulders, something hits me for the very first time.

  Now that I’m not with Denise, all I see are Savannah’s toned legs, her long hair, and those big blue eyes.

  Holy shit, is my closest female friend a total babe and I never noticed it until tonight?

  I walk up to her, clear my throat, more awkward than I’ve felt before with her. “So, how long have we been going out?” I ask, diving right into the reason we’re here.

  She laughs. “Good to see you too.”

  “Hey. Sorry. Also, you look nice.”

  I want to say You look pretty. Only I don’t, because all these thoughts are colliding at once and I need to figure them out.

  She glances down at her outfit—simple jeans and a pink top. “Thanks, and I think we should say we’ve been dating for three months. Because that’s enough time where you might not have told your mom about me but not so much time that it will seem like you were hiding it.”

  “And what do we like to do for fun?” I ask after I order a beer.

  “We like to play bocce ball,” she says, rattling off an activity that we’ve done a few times in the past. “We love to go see musicians play. And we definitely, really, totally dig trying to eat the spiciest food in all of Manhattan.”

  A grin spreads easily on my face. “Hey, it sounds like it’s not even a fake story.”

  She flashes me a smile. “There’s nothing fake at all about that story.”

  And the funny thing is, it doesn’t feel the least bit fake to me either. It doesn’t feel fake to me when I pay for our beer or when we walk to the party. It doesn’t feel fake when I loop an arm around her waist as we stroll along the streets of Brooklyn.

  And it doesn’t feel fake at all when there’s the slightest tremble from her as I touch her.

  We get to the engagement party at my mom’s favorite restaurant and everything feels ridiculously, incredibly real. Everything comes into focus at last. It’s as if I wore the opposite of rose-colored glasses around her, and they blurred her from the realm of possibility. Now the glasses are off, and I can see clearly what’s been right in front of me all along.

  I grab two beers from the waiter, and I hand her one first.

  She tips the bottle to mine and says, “Cheers,” and even that word feels different, like we have something to cheer about.

  When that new girl band we signed plays on the sound system, I point to the speaker. “One of your favorites,” I say. “The Violet Rays rock.”