Page 34 of The Hookup Situation
I gasp. “Did you hear everything?”
“I’ll never tell,” she says.
I follow her to the front, where a line has formed. As I make the espresso, I can’t stop thinking about Nick’s knee pressed against mine, the warmth of his hand, the way he said, “Want to get weirder?” like it was an invitation to adventure.
It’s just fake dating, I remind myself.
Really elaborate, PowerPointed, multi-phased fake dating.
The next two hours pass in a blur of customers and knowing looks from Blaire. When my shift ends, Nick waits for me by the door, hands in his pockets, looking unfairly good in his casual clothes. The afternoon sun streaming through the windows catches the gold in his eyes, and I have to remind myself that this isn’t real. It’s a friend offering a favor.
“Ready?” he asks, holding out his hand.
I take it, ignoring how perfectly our fingers fit together. “Lead the way.”
The walk to Harvest Market is short, but approximately thirty locals see us holding hands. Each time someone waves or calls out a greeting, Nick’s grip tightens slightly—a little reminder that we’re in this together.
“You’re thinking too hard,” I tell him as we enter the store.
“How can you tell?”
“You get this little crease right here.” I reach up without thinking, smoothing the spot between his eyebrows.
He catches my hand, holding it against his cheek for a moment. “You’re right.”
“It’s not a bad thing. Welcome to the Overthinkers Club. We meet on Wednesdays. There are cookies.”
He laughs, and I realize I’m already looking forward to making that happen again. The physical attraction makes everything feel more intense.
“Okay,” he says, grabbing a cart. “Teach me your ways.”
“Oh, this is easy. You push the cart. That’s what hot boyfriends do.”
“Noted,” he says. “And then?”
“And then they tell their girlfriends to buy whatever they want.”
He smirks, moving close to me. “Buy whatever you want, sweetheart.”
The way his voice lowers, along with the pet name, causes a shiver to run up my spine.
“Okay, that was good.”
He turns the cart and crashes the corner into an apple display, causing three to roll across the floor.
“So smooth,” I say, helping him chase them down. “Relax. No pressure.”
“Right. No pressure.”
He takes a breath, and I slide in beside him. He wraps his arm around me as we walk side by side, both of us keeping one hand on the cart. We look like an inseparable couple.
“You know, Craig used to criticize all my food choices and insist on organic everything while complaining about the prices.”
“What a dick.”
We move through the produce section, and I load the cart with different fruits and vegetables I enjoy. Nick listens like I’m sharing secrets, asking questions about why I choose one apple variety over another. It’s oddly intimate.
In the cereal aisle, I reach for Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and he gasps.
