Pretend You're Mine

by Francisco, Fabiola

  Harris

  “Sorry, I’m late.” I holler as I stroll into Knox’s house without knocking. Knox Bentley is my friend, after managing his music career for years, he’s now my business partner. Starting a music label together has been the best decision we’ve ever made.

  I rip open one of the beef jerky packs and take a bite. I can eat a million of these and never grow tired of them.

  When no one answers, I make my way to the stairs that lead down to the studio in Knox’s basement, since the soundproof padding will mute any noise outside of the studio.

  “Hey, sorry, y’all.” I walk into the studio, looking at Knox first, then Sutton, the first singer we’ve signed to the label, and Ainsley, Knox’s fiancée. “The most bizarre thing happened to me.” I throw the empty jerky wrapper in the small trashcan and sit on the couch next to Sutton.

  “Well, it better be good if you kept me waiting,” Sutton arches a brow, but her lips twitch with a smile.

  “How are you, buttercup?” I pull her into a hug.

  “Ugh, get off me,” she paws away from me, smirking. “I’m great. My flight was delayed, so you didn’t make me wait that long.” She brushes her blonde hair with her fingers and giggles, giving away her false annoyance.

  Ainsley laughs with her. “Have I told you how much I like you?” She points at Sutton.

  “Feeling’s mutual, doll.”

  Sutton is like a younger sister. I saw her playing in a Nashville bar multiple times after we started the label a few months ago. Flying between Los Angeles, Nashville, and Everton was exhausting, but the beginning of any business venture requires long hours, little sleep, and a passionate drive. I have it all.

  I sent Knox video clips of her performances so he could get a feel for her music, and he went with me to Nashville once to watch her perform in person. We both agreed she’d be perfect. From my contacts, I knew she was unsigned and hungry for a record deal. However, Knox and I both agreed to keep our business in line with our morals, so no matter how hungry an artist might be, we’d never take advantage. We stay true to our values, which is something you rarely find nowadays.

  It wasn’t just her voice I liked. Sutton has southern sass, the looks to match, and everything about her screams folk and homegrown. After Knox’s experience with RWB Records and the shit storm he endured with the label, we both agreed to stay true to the roots of country music, even if it meant we had to work harder to prove ourselves against the mainstream songs being played these days. People still love and crave true blues, real instruments instead of computerized imitations, and Sutton could be America’s next country music sweetheart.

  I banked big bucks on her, and I won’t go down without a fight. Knox and I both agree on that.

  “What happened?” Knox leans back on the couch, staring at me.

  I go into detail about how I was minding my own, picking out jerky, and a random woman walked up to me as if she knew me. I was perplexed, but when I looked over her head and saw a smug asshole, I figured she needed help. Who am I to refuse a beautiful woman in need?

  “Wait, are there that many jerky options here?” Sutton interrupts me.

  “You have no idea. There’s smoky, honey, spicy, plain, elk, buffalo, beef. You name it, they have it in Everton.”

  Her eyes are wide. “I’m going to have to try this jerky.”

  “Here,” I toss her a pack. “The smoky is my favorite.”

  Her eyes light up in glee, and she rips the wrapper open, taking a bite and making some weird sound of approval as she chews.

  “Who is this woman?” Knox asks, his arms defensively cross over his chest. I don’t blame him for being watchful of the people he surrounds himself with after the media turned his life upside down, and people in this town betrayed his trust.

  “Poppy Powell, but don’t call her PP. Apparently, that’s a sore subject.”

  “You called a woman PP?” Ainsley tucks her lips between her teeth and shakes her head. “Only you, Harris.”

  “Powell,” Knox whispers as if trying to recall the name.

  “Do you know her? She seems nice enough. Anyway, I have to go to this ball with her on Saturday and pretend to be her boyfriend, so this Patrick asshole stops harassing her.”

  “Patrick Davis?” Knox sits up straighter.

  “Do you know him?” Ainsley’s head turns toward him.

  “Yeah, he’s a couple years younger than me. He always was a jerk.” Knox shakes his head with disapproval. “Wait, Powell?” His eyebrows come together.

  “Yeah.”

  “The mayor’s daughter?” Knox stares at me, his eyebrows now raised on his forehead.

  “Yeah, the ball or gala or whatever it is is for her dad. Apparently, he’s been the only mayor in this town for years.” I’ve always lived in a city. Nashville, Knoxville for college, and Los Angeles. I’ve never lived somewhere small enough where the population unanimously agreed to keep the same mayor for years. And I love it.

  “Do you know her?” Ainsley asks Knox, her face etched in a frown.

  “Not really. Her dad’s been the mayor forever like Harris said. She’s a couple years younger than Axel, I think. Are you sure this is a good idea?” He turns his attention to me.

  “Yeah, she’s harmless.”

  “I’m not worried about her. I’m worried about the people around her.”

  “Relax. It’s one night, and it’s just me, not our label or your name,” I assure him with a placating nod.

  “Okay. Let’s get to work.” Knox claps, ready to get this show on the road.

  “I’ll see y’all later. I’m going to catch up on work, too.” Ainsley kisses Knox and smiles at Sutton and me. “I’ll make some lunch.”

  “Thanks, babe.” Knox smiles up at her from his spot on the couch, and I smirk. The man is as in love as I’ve ever seen him. I catch Sutton’s eyes, and she rolls them, but her smile is wide and, if I’m not mistaken, a little envious.

  “Aw, buttercup, you’ll find love one day.” I tease her, rubbing her hair again.

  “Asshole,” she mutters, patting down her short locks.

  We get to work, going over business before we get into the creative fun of songwriting and Sutton singing the songs we’ve worked on. We may be a small label, but we work as hard as the big names in the industry. One day, we’ll be one of those.

  …

  I wait for Poppy at Cup-O-Joe, smiling at some of the people that walk in for an afternoon coffee fix. I’d visited Everton enough before moving to be familiar with some of the folks. I’ve only been living here for two months, yet it feels like it’s been longer for that reason.

  “Hey, sorry I’m late.” Poppy rushes in, dropping on the armchair across from me. “I got caught up at work.”

  I eye her in a pair of black pants and a shirt that looks like it’s made out of silk. A stark contrast to her attire yesterday.

  “I’m a teacher.”

  “Really?” I sense my brows lifting and dropping on my forehead.

  “Yeah.” She crosses her arms. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “No, but yesterday you mentioned you got a degree based on what your parents wanted in order to please them, and I didn’t think it’d be teaching.”

  “It wasn’t. I studied political science and hated it. A few years ago, I took the courses to get certified in teaching. I love it.” A relaxed smile fills her face, and I take her in. She’s beautiful. Long brown hair with blue-green eyes that shine with innocence. I have a feeling Poppy is unlike any woman I’ve ever met.

  After all, no one has asked me to pretend to be their boyfriend in the past.

  “I’m gonna grab a coffee. Do you want something?” Her thumb hooks over her shoulder in the direction of the counter.

  “I got it. I was waitin’ for you to arrive to order.”

  “No, no. You paid yesterday. It’s the least I can do.”

  I stand without responding and walk to the counter, ordering two lattes. When I get
back, Poppy is turned on the edge of her seat, her jaw slack.

  “You didn’t have to do that.” She sits back again when I place her latte on the low, worn table in front of her.

  “I know, but I’m a gentleman, and my momma taught me you always treat a lady.”

  “This isn’t even a real date,” she mumbles, but I catch it.

  “It may not be, but that doesn’t mean I can’t buy you a coffee.” I sink into the worn armchair and cross my ankle over my knee.

  Her eyes widen, and her cheeks turn pink. Clearing her throat, she speaks. “Okay, let’s do this.” She pulls out a notebook, and I eye it with intrigue. Is she really going to take notes?

  When she catches my stare, she clears her throat. “I want to make sure there are no loopholes in our story, or I’ll be wed to Patrick The Jackass Davis before the leaves fall from the trees.”

  “Your dad wouldn’t marry you off in two months.”

  Poppy’s eyes meet mine, her lips in a firm line. “You’re clearly new to town. My daddy’s been trying to hook me up with eligible bachelors since I got back from college eight years ago. All unsuccessful because I’ve become a pro at scaring men away. A few linger, wanting to become the next Everton mayor, thinking that marrying me will guarantee their inheritance of the title. As if my daddy were ninety and on his death bed,” she scoffs, and I can’t believe that she’s serious about this.

  “Now, I’m thirty and single, which apparently is unheard of. As if we live in the olden days where women would marry at sixteen because they needed to breed children at a young age so they could make their husbands proud by pushing an entire football team out of their hoo-ha.” She exhales, filling her lungs with more air to continue her monologue.

  “Anyway, it’s apparently inappropriate, so he’s been trying to set me up with ‘nice guys’ that are ‘well-educated and carry on good careers.’” Her use of air quotes is actually pretty adorable, along with her exasperation. “And quite frankly, I’m tired of it. I’ve always pleased him and my momma. I’ve always done what they asked, got the degree they encouraged, listened, and took their advice as if God Himself spoke the words.” She takes a full drink of her latte before wiping her mouth with a napkin.

  “I rebel in small, subtle ways because I hate confrontation. The whole town has labeled me the Mayor’s Daughter, and they’ve placed expectations on how I should live my life. I hate it, but I love my parents, so I deal with it.”

  “You need a stiff drink and some fun. We should’ve gone to Clarke’s instead.”

  “Tell me about it.” She sighs and runs her hand through her hair before bunching it up and tying it in a ponytail.

  “What do you do for fun?” I ask, because she has to do something that would distract her from that mess. I can’t imagine living in a way that pleases everyone else and diminishes the fun out of my life.

  “I love to read. My best friends and I each take turns hosting a book club once a week. It probably sounds lame, but it’s our time to drink wine, eat cupcakes, and talk about books we love.”

  “Okay, how about your favorite food?” I prompt.

  “Italian. Anything pasta. Give me all the cheesy, creamy carbs. What about yours?” Her shoulders rest easy on the chair as she melts into it.

  “Barbecue. Smoked ribs, baked beans, cornbread.”

  “What story should we use about how we met?” she asks, biting her lower lip.

  “Let’s use the truth.” When her eyes pop, I finish, “We’ll change it, obviously. We can say something like we bumped into each other while we were both looking for jerky and our mutual love for it led to a coffee date.”

  “Um, that might work.” Her nose scrunches up, but I’m not sure she’s convinced. She moves on with the conversation, regardless.

  Writing in her notebook, she rips the sheet and hands it to me. “This is my basic information. Birthdate, favorite color, where I went to school, my job. Why don’t you write that info for me, and we can each memorize it?” She pushes the notebook toward me, the pen placed in the center fold.

  “Okay.” I grab it and scribble details about myself that I think a girlfriend would know about her boyfriend.

  “Are you sure you still don’t want to fake food poisoning?” Poppy looks at me as I hand her the paper. There are lines between her eyebrows, and her eyes are small as concern clouds the aqua color to a stormier green.

  “Yeah, it’s totally okay. Besides, I hear that Patrick guy’s a real winner,” my sarcasm drips. If Knox says the guy’s an asshole, I believe him.

  “Oh, yeah,” she rolls her eyes and grabs her cup to take a sip.

  “Hey,” a voice says beside us. Poppy’s eyes widen, and her hand reaches for her mouth as she sputters, choking on her coffee.

  “Are you okay?” I reach for a stack of napkins, handing her a few. Her head moves back and forth quickly, her face beet red.

  The napkins move across her lips and chin, then she grabs another one to wipe her hand, all the while ignoring the woman standing above us with her brows lifted. I don’t know her, so I’m assuming she’s waiting for Poppy.

  Poppy looks down at her shirt and murmurs something, wiping at the coffee stain, which just makes it worse.

  After a few deep breaths, she looks to her left and smiles. “Hey.” She shrugs as if she didn’t just spit coffee all over herself. “What’s up?” She crosses her arms and rearranges her shirt with her tucked hands, trying to cover the stain.

  I hold back a chuckle because I have a feeling she’d throw daggers at me if I laughed right now. Instead, I watch her school her features, badly so, as her nose scrunches and lips screw. Her red cheeks and the way loose strands of her hair fall from her ponytail onto her face, hiding a bit of her, make her look beautiful. She is beautiful without all of those things, but her oblivious nature just adds to it.

  We may be pretending to be together for a ball, but I’m not blind. I can appreciate a gorgeous woman.

  “Hi, I’m Averly.” The woman stretches out her hand in front of me.

  “Harris. Nice to meet you.”

  She tilts her head to Poppy, not hiding her curiosity and smile. “Harris, how do you know Poppy here?” The tall woman sits on the arm of Poppy’s chair, slinging an arm around her shoulder and pulling her in.

  “I’m her boyfriend,” I don’t skip a beat. I’m not sure how much we’re supposed to fake this, but I figured playing it safe and keeping everyone in the same loop is easiest.

  Averly howls out a burst of laughter, her cackles calling the attention of everyone in the coffee shop. She shakes her head and wipes under her eyes, releasing Poppy’s shoulder and leaning forward.

  “I’m sorry,” she says as she straightens her blouse and catches her breath. “Did you say, boyfriend?”

  “Yeah,” I lift my brows. “Is that so difficult to believe?” I cross my arms and lean forward, keeping a brow arched.

  She must notice my annoyance because she pushes back an inch and grows serious. “Of course not. Poppy is a catch, any man would be lucky to have her. However, I’m her best friend, and if she had a boyfriend, she’d tell me.” Averly looks from me to Poppy, who is wide-eyed and chewing her lip as I would beef jerky.

  “Well, I guess she hadn’t gotten around to it.” I’m not sure why I’m defending her instead of letting Poppy speak for herself.

  “Interesting, because we saw each other two nights ago, and she didn’t mention it.” Averly is staring at Poppy, her eyes narrowed.

  “It’s a long story,” Poppy shakes her head.

  “It better be a juicy one if you hooked yourself the new guy in town, hot at that, and didn’t find the time to tell me.”

  I bark out a laugh at her honesty while Poppy mutters, “Filter, Averly.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me.” I lean back, my arms behind my head. “Go on, talk all about my hotness.” Poppy glares, but her neck and cheeks are red again, and she fidgets with her ponytail.

  “Averly, we’ll t
alk about it later.”

  “You better.” She points at her and then winks. “It was great to meet you, Harris. Hopefully, I’ll see you around.” She gives me a wide smile and stands, leaving us alone again.

  Poppy’s sigh lingers between us. “Sorry.” She closes her eyes and shakes her head. “I’ll tell her the truth. She knows what my dad is like, and she hates Patrick. Even more than I do.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Anyway, the ball is Saturday at six-thirty in Town Hall. I can meet you outside a little before six.”

  “Nah, I’ll pick you up. What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I let you drive on your own?”

  “I’d go with my parents,” she shrugs.

  “Even worse. How do you expect them to believe us if I don’t show up and introduce myself like a proper gentleman?”

  The ghost of a smile appears on her lips, and her eyes turn soft, back to their lighter tone. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “Just doing what’s right.” I lift a shoulder and finish off my coffee.

  “Cold?” she asks when I grimace.

  “So bad,” I shake my head. “Anyway, we’ll talk. I added my number to the page I wrote my info on.”

  “I insist on getting your tux, whether you rent or buy one.”

  “Poppy, I already told you not to worry about it. I actually have a tux at home.”

  “You do?” Her eyes pop open, shooting her eyebrows up to her hairline.

  “Yeah,” I shrug. “I’ve had to attend a few formal events and weddings throughout the years.”

  “Oh, that makes sense, living in a big city and working in the music industry.” She drops back on her chair, the cushions almost swallowing her up.

  “Okay, so I’ll see you Saturday. I’ll text you my address later this week.”

  “Great. I’ll see you.” We both stand, and I wait for her to walk in front of me, holding the door open.

  I haven’t been in a situation like this before, and as bizarre as it is, it’s kind of fun. One thing I’ve learned about Everton is that there’s never a dull moment.

  Poppy

  “Spill,” Averly demands as soon as I get home. She’s sitting outside of my small apartment, her arms crossed and an angry brow perfectly arched.