Page 3 of Faking the Shot
“Are you sure she’s going to be okay if we leave?” Jacob, Noelle’s husband, asks, his brows knitting together like I’m about to dissolve into a puddle of sad on the spot.
It’s funny how seriously he takes this big brother thing. Since the divorce, Jacob’s been stepping in like I’m the little sister he has to care for. First, he found me the best lawyer in San Francisco, one who wiped the floor with my ex and took more than half of our savings. Then he found me a job I could do from anywhere, saving me from financial ruin. And lastly? He agreed to let me move in with him and my sister temporarily so I could dodge my hovering mother.
And let me tell you, hovering doesn’t even begin to cover it. My mom’s more like a helicopter on steroids, complete with unsolicited advice about everything from my wardrobe to my love life. Apparently, the fact that I’m in my thirties, divorced, and eating Pop-Tarts for breakfast is a national emergency.
“I’ll be fine, Jacob,” I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “You two go to San Diego and celebrate your sister’s . . . whatever it is.”
“It’s her birthday,” Noelle chimes in, giving me the look. The one that says I know you’re deflecting, but I’ll let it slide for now.
“You could come,” she offers, her voice careful, like she’s testing the waters.
I could. But the thought of flying across the country to smile through a party makes my stomach churn. Especially since it would put me way too close to my ex—and his new girlfriend, who, from what I hear, is essentially a walking Instagram filter.
“I’m good,” I reply, waving them off like it’s no big deal. “You two go have fun. I’ll hold down the fort here.”
Jacob’s frown deepens, but Noelle pulls him toward the door, whispering something that makes his shoulders relax.
As the door clicks shut behind them, I exhale deeply and sink onto the couch. The quiet settles around me, a welcome shift from the whirlwind of the past year—so many changes and everyone’s constant concern.
For now, it’s just me, this crappy romcom, and a bowl of cereal that somehow tastes better when eaten in sweatpants.
Because honestly? That’s love, too. And it’s definitely enough for tonight.
Chapter Two
Valentina
Trivia Night: The First Face off
Tonight was supposed to be simple—a date with myself. I planned on a warm latte, a cookie I didn’t have to share, and the quiet comfort of my own company. That was the plan. A small indulgence to remind myself that being alone isn’t the same as being lonely.
But then Trivia Night happened.
I should’ve walked out the moment I saw the chalkboard sign: Prove Your Smarts—Trivia Starts at Seven. It would’ve been so easy. Instead, I made the mistake of thinking, how bad could it be? A few harmless questions, some background chatter, and I’d still have my evening of solitude.
KC. Annoying, handsome, and infuriatingly self-assured.
And what does KC stand for, anyway? King of Confidence? Know-it-all Champion? Kinda Cute but Definitely Annoying? The possibilities are endless—and equally aggravating.
He just had a very heated, very stupid debate with the barista and now . . . Now he’s sitting next to me, effortlessly shattering my plans for a quiet night. He’s wearing a baseball cap that does absolutely nothing to hide how thick and dark his hair is, curling slightly at the ends.
His broad shoulders fill the tiny coffee shop chair to the point where I’m half-convinced it’s going to collapse under him, and his glasses—black frames, classic but undeniably cool—rest on the bridge of a nose that looks like it’s been broken once or twice. The effect is devastating. Like, he shouldn’t be allowed out in public devastating. Those glasses add a certain nerdy charm to the defined angles of his face, making him the kind of attractive that’s both irritating and distracting in equal measure.
If I weren’t on a man embargo, recovering from the disaster that was my divorce, I’d be staring at him like a kid in a candy shop. Even hoping I could lick him. Hell, maybe I am, because every time I look at him, my resolve wavers just a little more. There’s something captivating about a man who looks like he belongs on the cover of a lifestyle magazine.
The host’s voice booms through the coffee shop, cutting through the hum of chatter: “First question. What’s the capital of Australia?”
Instead of raising my hand and shouting my answer, I choose to scribble the answers. Though, I barely have time to pick up my pen before KC leans over, radiating the kind of easy confidence that’s downright maddening.
“Canberra,” he says, tapping the trivia sheet in front of me like it’s a lifeline. “Too easy . . . unless you don’t know, of course.”
I shoot him a look but write it down anyway. “Thanks for the unsolicited geography lesson,” I say, deadpan. “I’m good.”
He grins, unapologetic. “Careful. Most people think it’s Sydney or Brisbane.”
Settled back in his chair, he looks far too pleased with himself. I try not to let my gaze linger on the way his smirk lights up his face—or the way his stupid baseball cap somehow makes him even more distractingly attractive. The last thing I need tonight is a complication, no matter how infuriatingly charming it might be.
“Next question,” the host calls. “Who painted the Sistine Chapel?”
