Page 71 of Matched with Her Fake Fiance

Dani shakes her head. “It’s been a day. The caterer called in sick earlier today so it’s been an adventure trying to get everything ready for tonight. I was tempted to buy the stuff for Rice Krispie Treats and peanut butter sandwiches. But the gal we were able to get has been amazing.”

“Who is it?” Not that I’m the one to do the scheduling of catering events, but I’m curious who she was able to get on short notice.

“A gal Tiffany, my sister-in-law’s cousin, recommended. The Love, Austen company she works for has used her for several events. From everything I’ve seen in there, she does a great job. I just hope tonight goes well.”

“Love, Austen? Isn’t that a matchmaking company?” My brain goes back to the woman Jack texted what feels like forever ago.

Dani nods. “Yeah.”

I’m curious about whether or not Dani has ever logged into something like that, but it’s not the right time for that discussion.

I lean forward, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her close. She melts into me and I’m okay for a few minutes of this. Okay, I’d be fine standing this close and practically cuddling all night.

“You’re doing a great job. What do you need from me?”

She gives me a small smile. Lifting her hand to brush a wisp of hair back, she says, “For now, just smile and make the rounds. Encourage people to donate.” Her smile widens with that remark, and I have to laugh, hoping she’ll be able to get past some of the stress of the night and enjoy what she’s put together.

“That I can do.” As if totally natural, I lean forward, brushing my lips against hers. I don’t know how she does it, but my brain goes fuzzy after contact.

I grab a soda from the table, knowing that a clear head is best since I’ll be driving home. The man next to me comments about the lack of napkins on the table and I see someone walking over with a stack of them in hand.

After a quick survey of the room, I take in a deep breath, prepping myself for the many conversations to come.

I’m used to going to these things when I’m forced to and in a sense I’m obligated to attend now. But I want to do it for Dani, to help in whatever capacity I can.

There is a small group around one of the taller tables and I walk over to join. A wave of panic crosses through me at the fact I know nothing about these people, but remembering the times Dani has helped me center myself gives me a little more footing to stand on.

My best strategy is to take this like a research lesson at the beginning. Because if my brain thinks I’m cataloging information for later, I tend to avoid the severe panic attacks.

I walk up, listening to the conversation there. One of the two men is talking, waving his arms as he tells his story. The women and other man seem to be eating it up.

“I’m under this pile of ten guys and know that if I don’t move them off me, my rib is going to puncture my lung. I take in one more deep breath and push up, nearly lifting the guys off the ground.”

That’s when a red flag pops up in my brain. The guy is probably showing off, so I give him the benefit of the doubt.

“The guys in New Zealand were really chill. And because of my injuries, the airline bumped me up to first class all the way back to Boston.”

“I doubt they’d do a complimentary bump to first class for injuries.” The moment the words are out of my mouth, I regret saying them. But the way this guy is going off, he needs to be stopped.

The guy’s head swivels toward me and his eyes narrow. “Who are you?”

“Miles. I’m just saying that I’ve done a lot of international travel and they don’t usually give you a free pass to the front of the plane.”

The others around the table are shifting like they’re uncomfortable, all except for the other guy, who looks like he’s about to open presents on Christmas.

“Obviously I would know, having just lived through it.” The guy points to the boot on his foot and I shake my head.

“Why do you have a boot if your injury was to your ribs?” I need to just let this go, but something about the braggart irritates me. Maybe it’s the captive audience he has or that his story is over-the-top.

“Wait,” one of the women says, pointing toward me. “Aren’t you Miles Clark?” The excitement in her eyes makes me want to disappear.

I nod. “That’s me.”

“I’m Lauren Wales,” the woman says, sticking out her hand. “I had economics with Professor Rob, and he always talked about you. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“You too. What do you do, Lauren?” I ask, sipping on my drink.

“I work for Goldman Sachs.”

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