Page 72 of Hard to Fake

“It’s me,” I say when voicemail picks up on the third ring. “I don’t need a date. I don’t need you pretending to have my back or acting like you care and then spilling my business to your teammates. As of now, my problems are no longer any of your business. And if you’re worried I’m obsessing over some dumb kiss that wasn’t even any good”—That’s a lie, but I’m on a roll, fueled by righteous indignation—“I’m over it.”

I finish my drink, say goodbye to Sierra, grab my coat and head for the door.

I’m a dozen furious steps outside when I hear someone shout my name.

"Brooke Ellis! Is that you?"

I turn to find a familiar woman standing with a handsome guy.

“Hannah!” I exclaim.

We hug in greeting, her shiny hair brushing my cheek as I pull away.

"I haven’t heard from you in a few months. What are you doing here?" I demand.

“We just moved to Denver for Matt’s work.” She introduces her husband.

“Classmate from law school?” he guesses.

“Definitely not,” I say.

“Brooke and I were sisters,” she explains.

But Matt’s question reminds me of one of my own. “Did you leave your firm to come here?”

“I did.” She sighs. “I might find something in a year or two, but we just had a baby and I’m enjoying being a mom.”

“That’s amazing,” I say and mean it. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. This is actually our first time leaving her with a sitter for an entire day.” Hannah’s brows knit with worry.

“She’ll be fine,” Matt assures her.

We catch up for a few minutes. I wrap my coat tighter around me against the cold.

“Are you excited for this weekend?” Hannah asks. "You're bringing a basketball player, right?"

I blink, thinking of the voicemail I left calling it off.

Hannah is one of the few sisters who was genuinely close with me and Caroline.

"Umm…”

"Isn't that him now?" she asks.

I follow her gaze.

Miles is dressed in a wool coat over gray sweatpants, no hat, color rising up cheeks covered with stubble.He's waving goodbye to a group of fans on the corner, half a head above the tallest of them.

Does he look like he’s listened to my voice message?

I’m about to find out, because he's headed this way.

A car passes, and Miles glances down the street before crossing with his hands in his pockets, head down, hair ruffling in the wind as he reaches us.

"Hey.”

“Hey,” I respond, breathless.

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