Page 40 of The Fake Dating War

“Two—”

“Six months,” I interject. “We joke that itfeelslike two years. Like we’ve been in each other’s lives forever and somehow hadn’t found each other. Anyway, we should focus on Esha. It’s her wedding, remember? No one wants to know all this detailed information about us.”

Disagreement audibly rises up, my own sister joining in as if I’ve said something ludicrous.

“You’ve been together for six months?” says Serena, with a distinct tone of disbelief. “You don’t seem that happy to see each other. Is the honeymoon phase over? You haven’t hugged or kissed.”

The arrogance of youth. They think nothing is off-limits. And yet, her disbelief commands the room. Nobody questions her observations. It’s like she’s delivering a thesis doctorate to fellow researchers the way everyone is nodding.

With all this attention, I feel hot, embarrassed, and stilted. From the corner of my eye, I see Coleman’s head lower to me.

In that flash of a moment, my mind careens wildly.

I didn’t think this through—hugging?—kissing?—and he’s going for it?!

Reacting almost blindly, my chin goes up so I can jerk it closer to him for this kiss. But the angle doesn’t work since his head is now bent too low?—

To grab his luggage.

Coleman was lowering himself to grab his luggage.

And me, thinking it was a kiss, have now nuzzled my mouth against the top of his head.

People around us gawk.

I’m dying. I’ve died. This is so fucking awkward. I can’t even look at him, but I can imagine he’s either about to burst out laughing or he’s disgusted I’ve violated his personal space.

“Whatwasthat?” Bebe wonders, which, if your grandma is voicing that question, it means you’ve lost all dignity.

“Head-kiss,” I say, my voice going more shrill. “There you go. That was a—head kiss. Our emotions live deep inside us,” I insist, further shoveling myself into an early grave. “We are—two souls in one body, not bound by the physical. Our bond—it’s—much—more.”

If I was lucky, some catastrophe would interrupt this moment. Nothing to ruin the wedding, but maybe a catering staff member could knock over a pyramid of martini glasses. Or the appetizer table could collapse. Any loud crash will do.

But no, the staff has also stopped to stare at me.

Before this gets any worse—can it?—I grab Coleman’s luggage out of his hands, belatedly realizing that I’ve smudged my palm’s henna on the handle.

“My work!” shouts the henna lady.

Great. She’s here, too.

I mutter something about it having mostly dried, and then I start dragging the luggage towards the exit, gesturing at Coleman, signaling that he should follow me.

“I’m taking him to the hotel!” I tell everyone behind us. “We’ll catch up later!”

Sure we will.

If I’m not locked up for murdering my fake-boyfriend.

26

JAKE

Patel knocks my suitcase into every corner she comes across. When I call her out, she shoots me a withering glare designed to shrink the balls of mighty men.

To keep mine safe, I follow her from a distance to the reception desk in the hotel next door. How was I supposed to know which building was the event venue and which one had the accommodations? They look the same, as does everything in this Hallmark town brought to life.

It’s… something. If you want ham-fisted charm and magic, and believe in living in a pocket of stillness, shutting out the rest of the world.

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