Лорен Блэйкли - Big Rock

She nods. “Right. Absolutely,” she says, and flashes me a smile that doesn’t feel real.

“We should do that again. Since we can,” I say, like a card player sliding chips into the pot to bet I can just be friends with her.

“Sure.”

“How about tonight?” I say, upping the ante again. I am going to blow my own mind at how good I am at just being friends.

“Okay.”

“My house?” Doubling down. Big time.

“Really?” She arches an eyebrow. “You really want to just hang out?”

“Of course. We were saying last night that we should.”

She shakes her head, and I’m not sure if it’s amusement or some sort of resignation. She takes a breath, adjusts her ponytail, and shrugs. “Fine,” she says. “Friends don’t let friends eat gummy bears alone. I’ll bring the bears.”

“I’ll eat the green ones for you.”

She shudders. “Hate the green ones.”

“And I’ll get the wine. If memory serves, you prefer a chardonnay with your bears?”

“I do, but maybe virgin margaritas tonight instead?”

I toss my napkin onto the table with a flourish. “Touched for the very first time,” I say, and again, maybe I should have thought first before those words came out.

Mercifully, the waitress arrives.

“Here are your eggs,” the waitress says, setting down the plates. “Well-cooked. Just like you asked for.”

Those last words echo loudly as I realize what I’ve just done. What I’ve asked for with my cocky mouth. My big ideas. My I-can-pull-anything-off attitude.

I just invited Charlotte into my house tonight. There aren’t enough sweaty basketball players in the universe for me to deal with the danger in that decision.

* * *

We spend the rest of the meal planning for the week ahead at The Lucky Spot. Neither one of us breathes another word about tonight, or last night, or our fake relationship. When we stop by The Lucky Spot and spend a few hours working before Jenny handles the Sunday afternoon shift—and before we head to the museum—we manage the slide back into being friends and business partners so smoothly, it’s as if last night never happened.

But once we set foot in the museum, something changes.

Handsy Charlotte has left the building. Sure, she’s still playing my fiancée, but she’s not as committed to the role as she was last night. I have no clue if my mom or Mrs. Offerman can tell, but as we stare at an Edward Hopper painting, I do my damnedest to make sure no one knows.

“The painting is beautiful,” Mrs. Offerman says.

“Yes, it is,” I chime in.

I wrap an arm tightly around my fake fiancée, plant a quick kiss on her cheek, and say, “Like you. By the way, have I told you how pretty you look today?”

Charlotte tenses, but manages a thanks.

My mother glances at us and smiles.

Emily does not. Emily seems to have zero interest in the artwork, even though this is her intended major.

But that’s okay. I’m returning to the swing of things. I’m on my game. As we wander through Chagalls and Matisses, I make witty comments, and all the women laugh, including Charlotte. When we’re out at the sculpture garden, I’m confident Charlotte and I are on solid ground, and we’re good enough at playing pretend.

Until Emily turns to her. “How long have you been in love with Spencer?”

Charlotte stiffens, and a burst of red splashes across her cheeks.

“I mean, were you attracted to him first before you started dating?” Emily continues. “Because you’ve been friends forever, right? So was it just one of those—”

“Emily, dear. Some things are personal,” Mrs. Offerman says, cutting in.

The teenage girl shrugs like this is no big deal. “I’m just curious. They went to college together. I don’t think it’s that weird to want to know if they were into each other back then.”

Charlotte raises her chin. “We’ve always been friends,” she says, then presses her hand to her forehead. “Excuse me.”

She takes off.

My mother glares at me, and all I can think is, she knows. Her eyes track Charlotte’s exit through the glass doors into the museum, and instantly my mother beckons me. I close the gap. She speaks low, out of the corner of her mouth. “She’s upset about something. Go after her. Comfort her.”

Right, of course. Super Fiancé to the rescue. Moms always know best.

I rush after Charlotte, through the door and down the hallway, catching up to her as she reaches the ladies’ room. I call out to her, but she’s got her hand on the door, and she pushes it open.

The door swings shut, and I stop.

For a second.

The hallway is quiet, far removed from most of the museum traffic. I push on the door and follow her in. She’s at the sink, splashing water on her face.

“Are you okay?” I ask tentatively as I walk over to her. There are three stalls in here, but they’re empty. Footsteps echo then fade down the hall.

She shakes her head. I reach her, place a hand on her lower back, and gently rub. She flinches, and inches away from me.

“Are you not feeling well? Do you have a headache from last night or something?”

The door creaks, and we freeze. It closes again, but I don’t hear anyone come in. The ladies’ room is silent; it’s just us.

She swivels around, grabs my shirt, and tugs me into a stall. “I can’t fake this.”

My shoulders drop. My limbs feel heavy. I’ve pushed her too far. “The engagement?”

“No. That’s fine. The pretend engagement is fine,” she says, staring straight at me. I’ve never seen her brown eyes so intense, like she’s about to scale a sheer wall. They don’t waver at all.

I knit my brow. “Then what is it?” I’m genuinely curious because if she’s not talking about our pretend relationship, I have no damn clue what it is she can’t fake.

Her grip tightens on my shirt. Her jaw is set. She huffs through her nostrils. I’ve never seen Charlotte like this. “What did I do wrong?”

“Last. Night,” she seethes. Each word has its own breathing room.

“What about last night?”

Her eyes float closed, but she looks pained. She takes a deep breath and opens them. The hard edge seems to fade somewhat. “You’re just pretending like it didn’t happen.”

“No,” I say quickly, trying to defend myself. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

But, in fact, it is what I’ve done all day. It’s exactly what I’m hoping to accomplish.

“It is what you’re doing. It’s what you did at breakfast. We just brushed it under the rug, and that’s not me,” she says, her tone fierce, reminding me of one of the very many things I admire about Charlotte—her toughness, her tenacity. “You didn’t let me talk, and I need to know. I told you I’m a shitty liar, and I meant it. I’m rubbish at lying. Even last night, when I said the thing about my dad being a nurse—that was still true.”

This is yet another thing I like about her—she’s so damn honest.

“Okay, so what do you need to know?” I ask, and nerves don’t just skitter across my skin. They fucking descend on me like flying monkeys.

The evil kind.

As if there’s any other variety.

She rolls her eyes. “Are you really this dense, Spencer?”

I hold my hands out wide. “Apparently I am. Why don’t you just spell it out for me? What do you need to know?”

She twists the fabric of my shirt in her hand, pulling me closer, and in a split second, the gap between us narrows. We were a foot away before—enough space to fend off the hormones. Now, they’re back. Swirling. Circling. Gripping. The temperature rises once more.

“Are you not attracted to me?”

My jaw falls. My head rings. She must be crazy. “Are you serious?”