Page 17 of Fake As Puck
Because what the actual hell happened to him?
When did West Carmack get... hot? Like, genuinely, devastatingly, “I need to sit down and rethink my entire existence” hot?
The last time I saw him in person was Tessa’s wedding three years ago, and he was cute in that annoying frat-boy way. Good hair, good smile, the kind of guy who probably owned too many pairs of khakis.
This West is something else entirely.
This West has a good jawline and forearms that are doing things to his rolled-up sleeves that should probably be illegal in several states. This West looks like he stepped out of some athletic wear commercial where attractive people do impossible things with protein shakes.
This is a problem.
A big problem.
Because I’m supposed to pretend to be attracted to him, not actually be attracted to him.
He sees me and raises his hand in a half-wave, and I notice he’s standing too straight, like he’s trying to convince himself this is normal.
“Hey,” he says when I reach him.
“Hey.”
We stand there for a beat. Neither of us moves to hug or do whatever normal people do when they pick someone up from the airport.
“How was your flight?” he asks, reaching for my suitcase handle.
“Fine,” I say, letting him take it even though I’m perfectly capable of wheeling my own luggage. “Long.”
“Yeah, it’s a long flight.”
“Yeah.”
More silence. This is excruciating.
“Should we...” he gestures toward the parking garage.
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
We walk through the airport, and I can feel the awkwardness radiating off both of us like heat waves. Every step feels deliberate, like we’re both hyperaware of how we’re moving, how close we’re standing, how absolutely bizarre this entire situation is.
He leads me to a black SUV that’s exactly what I expected him to drive and opens the passenger door for me. I slide into the seat and the interior smells like a brand new car.
He gets in the driver’s seat and starts the car, and soft indie music fills the space. He turns the music down but doesn’t change it. We pull out of the parking garage into the Seattle drizzle, and I put on my sunglasses more out of habit than necessity, staring out the window at the evergreen trees and coffee shops sliding past.
“So,” I say after what feels like an eternity of silence, “tell me about this wedding. What should I expect?”
“It’s Reed and Chelsea’s. Pretty casual. They’re doing it at some park with a reception at the community center.”
“Got it. Casual.”
“Yeah.”
I watch the city sprawl past us, all green spaces and mountains in the distance. “How many people?”
“Maybe a hundred and fifty? Something like that.”
“And your teammates will be there?”
“Most of them. The core group, anyway.”
