by Max Monroe
He discreetly pinches her side, and she giggles, her first peals of laughter bouncing off the walls of the room before she snaps her hand across her mouth in surprise.
God, they’re cute.
Just…so perfect in the way they look at each other. The way that, even when they’re just simply walking around a museum, their bodies move together in synchrony.
There is so much you can tell about other people by just watching them, their body language, and the way they react to stimuli around them.
And there is no denying, whether they are married or dating, these two are in love.
Undoubtedly, together. A couple. A team.
Kind of like how you and Luke are supposed to be when you’re in Vermont next month…
Can Luke and I actually pull this off?
Can we look as convincing as that couple?
Or will it be painfully obvious that we’re just two friends pretending to be something we’re not?
Eek. I can’t stop myself from pulling my cell phone out of my pocket and typing out a discreet text message.
Me: What are you doing right now?
Luke: At the gym, why?
Me: I think we need to do trial runs.
Luke: ?
I loathe when he just sends me a question mark or one single emoji.
And he knows it.
I mean, type actual words, for goodness’ sake.
Me: Trial runs, as in practice dates. We need to make sure we can actually look like we’re dating.
Luke
I’ve barely finished my second set of biceps curls when my phone buzzes with another text. Normally, after a six-mile run through Central Park, I can speed through my weight workout at the gym, but my best friend is apparently adamant on slowing me down today.
And, practice dates? Fucking hell.
I set my dumbbells back on the rack and sit down on a nearby bench to shoot her a message back.
Me: I thought we already agreed no lists or complicated plans, Ace.
Ava: Excuse me, but I recall tossing my Best Friends Don’t List in the trash…
Pretty sure she didn’t toss that list in the trash, and if I know Ava, she’s probably hoarding it somewhere in her apartment. But I choose to pick my battles.
Me: What do these practice dates entail exactly?
Ava: I don’t know. Just…practice. Like, scheduled dates where we go out in public and act like we’re in a relationship. Get a feel for it, you know?
The sound of weights clinking muffles my chuckle as I shake my head.
First, lists.
Now, practice dates.
Ava obviously doesn’t realize it, but the two of us? We don’t need any of that shit.
We’ve seen each other at the highest highs and the lowest lows. We’ve been there for every relationship and every breakup, and at this point, I probably know more about Ava than her own mother—and that’s not even an exaggeration.
“Tell me you’re sexting in the middle of your workout, and I swear to God, it’ll make my fluffing day.”
I look up to find Thatcher Kelly, clad in jogging pants and a T-shirt that reads Property of Cassie, standing directly in front of me with a big-ass grin on his face.
Because we go to the same gym, every great once in a while, we run into each other mid-workout. Well, it started out as his exclusive, impossible-to-get-into Manhattan gym, but he did what Thatch does best and sweet-talked the owner into letting me become a member. Despite the fact that my bank account doesn’t end in seven zeros.
“Very funny.” I bark out a laugh. “And, no. I wasn’t sexting.”
“Oh, so just sending dick pics, then?”
“Texting, dude. I was just texting with Ava.”
“Ava?” He quirks a brow. “That’s the best friend, right? The one who’s trolling TapNext?”
“No longer trolling TapNext, but yes, my best friend Ava,” I correct, and he smiles his biggest shit-eating grin.
“No longer trolling TapNext, eh?” He winks. “I guess that means you figured it out, and you’re banging.”
My eyebrows shoot together. “We’re not having sex. And figured what out?”
“Oh. Whoops. What’s going on, then?”
I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”
“Luke, my man, I’m not walking away until you fill up my gossip cup.”
“You’re impossible, you know that?” I groan and run a hand through my slightly sweaty hair, but when Thatch makes no move to respond or leave, I add, “You really want to know?”
“Are you kidding me?” he exclaims. “I love tea. I’ll guzzle that shit any chance I can get.”
God only knows why, but I tell him the whole sordid tale.
The fact that Ava realized online dating is horrible.
That the only reason she’s been online dating is to find a date to bring home to Vermont for the holidays, her high school reunion, and her sister’s wedding.
And that, because I’m an awesome best friend, I offered to play the role of fake boyfriend so she didn’t have to keep going on dates with idiots.
The instant I finish, Thatch starts cracking up like I’m Kevin Hart, and I’ve just delivered my best fucking stand-up routine.
“What?” I question in confusion. “Why is that so funny?”
“It’s nothing,” he responds, still laughing. “But now, I hope you realize, I will require constant updates on how this goes.”
“Why in the hell would you want to know how this goes?”
He grins like the Cheshire cat. “Because this is the best fluffing thing I’ve heard since you told me you and Ava are just friends.”
I groan. “We are. Best of.”
“Uh-huh.” That grin turns devilish. “You know…” He pauses and taps his chin dramatically. “I’m pretty sure I’ve heard this tale before. At least seven times. And every single one of them ended with me watching my buddy stand at the altar and say, “I do.”
“Whoa. Slow your roll, Thatch.” I cough on my own saliva. “While I know you have a serious soft spot for rom-coms and romance novels, my life isn’t a Lifetime movie.”
“Hallmark.”
I blink and tilt my head to the side. “What?”
“Pretty sure you mean Hallmark,” he explains. “Those are the ones with swoony happy endings. Personally, they’re my favorite.” He winks. “Lifetime movies usually involve someone getting murdered. Or someone trying to get someone else murdered. Or an evil twin sister faking her good twin sister’s death so she can make her sister’s boyfriend fall in love with her while she keeps her sister locked up in the basement.”
“Was I supposed to understand anything you just said?”
“You don’t watch Lifetime?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Fluffing hell, you’re missing out. That shit is like crack. My wife Cass loves it. Sometimes, we even role-play the angry sex scenes. It gets crazy hot, dude. Crazy hot.”
“I think my brain might be bleeding.”
It’s so not normal to have a boss like Thatcher Kelly. I literally never know what’s going to come out of his mouth.
“That’s such a fluffing Wes thing to say.” He chuckles. “Anyhoo, back to Ava, right?” he asks with a knowing smirk. “Pretty sure you have more tea to spill.”
“There is zero tea, Thatch.”
“Oh, there’s tea, Luke. So much tea to spill, you’d make the Sons of Liberty proud.”
I snort. “Did you seriously just reference the Boston Tea Party?”
“I did.” He smirks. “And I’m pretty sure you just tried to deflect my tea-spilling request by mentioning the Boston Tea Party, so I’d say we’re even.”
“Sometimes, you make no sense.”
“Oh, but I do, Daniel-san. Thatcher Kelly always makes sense,” he says proudly, mimicking Mr. Miyagi’s voice. “Which is why you’re going to love my next request.”
“And what’s that?”
“Come to Cass�
��s and my Manhattan apartment next Friday and enjoy a delicious meal with us.”
“That’s the day after Thanksgiving, dude.”
“I know. And on the day after Thanksgiving, the whole gang gets together for Friendsgiving. It’s become a bit of a tradition. We get babysitters for the kids, Kline’s wife Georgie cooks one hell of an awesome meal, Wes’s wife Winnie brings desserts, and my wife Cass spends most of the evening busting my balls. It’s fluffing great.”
Technically, I don’t have any plans the day after Thanksgiving. Or even on Thanksgiving, to be honest. Last year, with my uncle Gary in the Bahamas and Ava’s family in Vermont and all our other friends having dinner with their respective families, we ended up ordering Chinese food and sneaking into the Met after hours so Ava could gush over her favorite paintings. The next day, we got up early and tried our hand at Black Friday shopping. Our first and last Black Friday shopping attempt. It only takes witnessing one fistfight over a plasma TV in the middle of Aisle 3 at a New Jersey Walmart to make you realize you’re more of an online shopper than anything else.
“While I really appreciate the offer, I don’t want to impose on you guys’ dinner.”
“You’re not imposing,” he insists without hesitation. “You’re coming, and you’re going to bring Miss Ava.” He winks. “Consider it practice for the main event.”
“I don’t—”
“I’m not taking no for an answer, dude. You and Ava are joining us for Friendsgiving dinner, end of story,” he cuts me off. “I’ll text you the address. See you Friday.”
And then, he’s off, with his headphones in his ears and his big, tall body striding over to the treadmills.
Well, shit. I guess Ava and I are having dinner with a bunch of billionaires next week…?
Me: Fine. We’ll do our first practice run next Friday.
Her response is immediate.
Ava: You’re agreeing to this? I really expected an argument. And next Friday is the day after Thanksgiving.
Me: Hey, I can be unpredictable sometimes.
Ava: No, you can’t. So, where did The Great Black Friday Trial Run come from?
I laugh. She really does know me better than anyone.
Me: You ever remember me talking about Thatcher Kelly?
Ava: Wait, is that the billionaire guy you fly around all the time? The one who’s always texting you when he’s running late?
Bingo. I smirk.
Me: That’s him. And next Friday, we’re going to have dinner with him and a bunch of his friends for something they call Friendsgiving.
Ava: Sounds just weird enough to be fun. But it’ll have to be, at the very least, trial run number two.
Me: ?
Ava: Tonight, you’re coming with me to an Upper East Side gallery opening.
Me: Very sneaky, Ace.
Ava: I know, right? ;) Be ready to leave by 6, boyfriend.
Boyfriend. Ha. That’s cute.
But also, why in the fuck are you smiling about it?
Ava
At a little after seven, Luke and I step inside Half Moon, a gallery on the Upper East Side. The space is small, but what it lacks in square footage, it makes up for in clean, open lines. The setup is simple, the center completely open, but each of the four walls contains six pieces by each abstract artist in the exhibition.
“This is our first official trial run, eh?” Luke whispers into my ear, and I nod, a secret smile covering my lips.
“Uh-huh. You think you can pass the boyfriend test?”
“Oh, you have no idea,” he responds with a wink. “Every person in this room will be convinced that you belong with me.” And he punctuates that statement by reaching out to gently intertwine my fingers within his. The warmth of his hand urges goose bumps to pepper my arms and the teeniest tiniest shiver to roll up my spine.
I ignore the odd sensation and chalk it up to the fact that we just walked four blocks in the cool, late-fall air and my hands and face feel like ice cubes. Surely, a little bit of his warmth will do my chilly body some good.
“Ava, darling.” A French-accented female voice fills my ears, and I turn around to find Meadow Moon, the owner of the gallery, walking toward us. “I am so glad you could make it tonight.” She steps forward to press two European-style kisses to my cheeks, and I don’t hesitate to return the gesture.
“I wouldn’t have missed it.”
It doesn’t take long before she notices Luke standing beside me, our hands still linked. “And who is this handsome, strapping man?”
“Luke London. This beautiful woman’s boyfriend.” Luke doesn’t hesitate to respond, and I almost choke on my own saliva when the word boyfriend falls from his lips.
Holy hell, we’re really doing it, huh?
Luke is pretending to be my boyfriend. In public.
“Well…” Meadow reaches out to gently grasp his bicep and flashes a surreptitious smile in my direction. “Aren’t you two just the most delectable sight?”
An awkward giggle jumps from my lips, because what in the hell am I supposed to say to that?
But Luke is so freaking confident in his role that he doesn’t even falter.
“I think we can both agree that my Ava here is the sight. I’m just the lucky bastard who gets to stand beside her,” he says, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to my forehead.
My Ava.
My cheeks flush, and my knees feel a little unsteady for a thirty-three-year-old woman with zero health problems.
Meadow lets out a swoony, breathy sigh.
And Luke? Well, he just grins down at me, his brown eyes warming when they meet mine.
Someone toward the back of the gallery gestures for Meadow, and she nods in their direction. “If you’ll excuse me,” she says, glancing between Luke and me with a look I can’t quite determine. “It was a true pleasure meeting you, Luke. And Ava, please let me know what you think about the exhibition.”
“Of course.”
Meadow walks away, and Luke smiles down at me.
“So, how am I doing, Ace?” he asks, his voice a mere whisper.
“Uh…great,” I say, tripping around my words a bit.
Oh yeah. So great, in fact, that you might start forgetting this is all pretend…
“Yeah?” he questions, and a handsome smile consumes his face. “I fit the boyfriend bill?”
“Mm-hmm,” I reply, and as we walk toward the first painting of the exhibition, our hands still gently locked together, my mind can’t stop thinking, So, this is what boyfriend Luke is like…
Affectionate.
Sweet.
Kind.
Attentive.
Basically, everything every woman on the face of the planet looks for in a man.
No wonder his old girlfriend Dana was so fucking clingy…
Our first official practice date went off without a hitch. Luke stayed by my side the entire time, carefully looking at each painting of the exhibition with me, and never hesitating to offer little public displays of affection.
A hand to the small of my back.
A tender kiss to my forehead.
His eyes and smile only directed toward me, even when female patrons inside the gallery flashed intrigued looks his way.
And none of it felt forced. It was all just…natural…comfortable…normal. Like we’ve been in a relationship for years.
Frankly, my mind is still reeling from how easy it was.
But certainly, it has more to do with our decade-and-half worth of friendship than anything else.
You sure about that? my mind questions, but I blink it away and focus on the now.
“Who was your favorite artist tonight?” I ask Luke just as the cool air brushes across my neck, and I adjust my scarf tighter around it. After spending two hours of our evening in Half Moon, night is officially upon us.
“Probably Callahan O’Malley.” He grins down at me as we head up Madison Avenue. “Although, I know his pieces weren’t your favorite.”
I scrunch up my nose. “How do you know which ones were my favorite?”
“Get real, Ace,” he says through a soft chuckle. “I even know which one was your absolute favorite.”
“Okay, Mr. Know-It-All, which one?” I challenge.
“The one titled Over-under-conscious.”
Instantly, I stop in the middle of the sidewalk and gawk at him.
“How on earth did you know that?”
Luke smirks, taking two steps back to wrap his arm around my shoulders. “I could tell by the way you were looking at it,” he says and gently nudges us back into motion. “Trust me, I’ve seen you look at enough art over the years to know when your eyes fall in love.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“To other people? No, probably not. You’ve grown to have one hell of a poker face when you’re in curator mode.”
“But to you?” I ask, and when another rush of cool air breezes past us, I shiver.
“Poker face or not, I can tell.” He winks, tucking me closer to his side.
We stay silent for another block, until Luke pops the quiet bubble with one hell of a question. “Why haven’t you been painting?”
“I don’t know.” My eyes move to the ground, watching my stiletto-covered feet tip-tap across the damp sidewalk. “I guess I just haven’t had time.”
“I don’t think that’s why.” I can feel his eyes on me. Staring at me. But I refuse to make eye contact. The whole source of this line of conversation is highlighted with shame and guilt and confusion. “And I know it’s been over a year since you last painted anything.”
That grabs my attention. I look up and meet his eyes. “How do you know that?”
Luke just smiles, a tender little curve of his lips. “Because I know you,” he says, simple as that—He knows me. “And I know the last painting you did was the one of your mom when she was pregnant with Kate.”