Page 58 of Faking It For Real

"Relax," I said, placing my hand over his restless one. "It's going to be fine. I'm a very convincing fake girlfriend, remember?"

He gave a tight smile. "It's not that. My dad can be... intense. Especially around the holidays when he has more time to fixate on my hockey progress."

I squeezed his hand. "Well, I'll be there to run interference if needed. I've become quite skilled at diverting uncomfortable conversations."

"Thanks," he said, smiling. "For doing this, I mean. It's beyond what our arrangement requires."

There was that word again—arrangement. It felt increasingly inadequate to describe what existed between us now, yet neither of us seemed willing to address the elephant in the room.

"It's fine," I said lightly. "Besides, it gives me an excuse to avoid my cousin Rebecca's interrogation about my love life for one more day."

His laugh eased some of the tension. We settled into comfortable conversation for the remainder of the drive, discussing everything from our professors' eccentricities to our predictions for Dylan and Olivia's increasingly obvious connection.

"Twenty bucks says they're officially together by New Year's," Ethan wagered.

"No need to bet," I laughed. "They were still arguing when I left this morning, but it was about whether Dylan would look better in a green or red sweater for some party they're apparently attending together. They're practically married already."

When we arrived at Ethan’s home, I found myself unexpectedly nervous. The house was impressive—a large, perfectly maintained suburban property with tasteful Christmas decorations adorning the exterior. I'd brought carefully chosen gifts: artisanal whiskey for his father, a monogrammed scarf for his mother, art supplies for his younger sister Emma, and, after much deliberation, a leatherbound notebook with a hockey player embossed on the cover for Ethan, intended for recording game strategies.

"Ready?" Ethan asked as we approached the front door, our hands linked.

I nodded, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. "Ready."

His mother, Sandra, answered the door with a warm smile that immediately put me at ease. She was slender and elegant, with Ethan's same blue eyes and an easy grace as she welcomed us inside.

"You must be Mia," she said, enveloping me in a surprising hug. "We've heard so much about you."

"All good things, I hope," I replied with a smile.

"Ethan doesn't bring girls home often," she said conspiratorially. "So you must be special."

The weight of our deception suddenly felt heavier—these weren't random classmates we were fooling, but his family.

We moved into the living room where Ethan's father, Richard, watched from his armchair, assessing me with a shrewd gaze that reminded me intensely of Ethan's expression when evaluating opponents on the ice. He was still handsome, with the same strong jawline as his son, though his hair was shot through with gray and there was a hardness to his features that Ethan's lacked.

"So you're the photographer," he said as he shook my hand. "Ethan says you've been documenting the team this season."

"Yes, sir," I confirmed. "For the university paper and my portfolio."

"Hmm." He met my gaze. "And how did you two meet again? Ethan was rather vague about the details."

Before I could recite our practiced story, I was rescued by a whirlwind of teenage energy as Emma, Ethan's sixteen-year-old sister, bounded into the room.

"Is this her? Is this Mia?" she demanded, looking me up and down with unabashed curiosity. "Finally! I was beginning to think Ethan made you up."

"Emma," Sandra admonished, but there was fondness in her tone. "Give them a moment to settle in."

"It's fine," I laughed, charmed by Emma's directness. "It's nice to meet you, Emma."

"Come on," she said, grabbing my hand. "I want to show you something while Mom finishes dinner."

Ethan shot me an apologetic look as his sister dragged me from the room, but I just smiled reassuringly. I could handle one enthusiastic teenager.

Emma led me to her bedroom, a colorful space covered in posters of bands I only vaguely recognized and hockey memorabilia that suggested she shared her family's passion for the sport.

"So," she said, closing the door and turning to face me with crossed arms. "What are your intentions with my brother?"

I nearly choked on my surprise. "Excuse me?"

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