No shit, Sherlock. Thanks for the running commentary.
She handed it back and said, “There’s only one way this would work.”
“What’s that?”
“If you were my date.”
The shock on Zach’s face was so overwhelming it made Rae physically cringe. She hurried to clarify. “My fake date. You know, for the… actually, no, forget it.” She was being ridiculous. Again. Zach made her forget to corral the most fanciful parts of her brain, the imagination she usually poured into her writing.
But, to her surprise, he didn’t stay silent or laugh awkwardly and change the subject. Instead, he lurched back to life and said, “Why?”
She blinked, taken off guard. “Uh… why what?”
“Why me?” He had a slight frown as he said it, like he was confused. Or focused. Or both.
She shrugged, drowning in her own self-consciousness but determined not to show it. “I like you. You’re charming. You’ll make the whole weekend less of a living hell. You’re not some sleazy stranger who’d use the experience to try and get in my pants.” Kind of like how she’d sleazily tried to get in his pants. Her cheeks heated. “And, really, there’s no way I could get a real date.”
His frown became a scowl. “Why the hell not?”
She blinked. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have a slight problem with people.”
“Problem being?”
“I hate them.”
His laughter was incredulous. “What? No, you don’t.”
“Zach.” She leaned forward. “When have you ever seen me talk to anyone but our little group?”
He opened his mouth, presumably to give her an example. But the example never came, because—as she well knew—there were none. He looked nonplussed, snapped his jaw shut, then said, “But you’re so great with all of us.”
Their friends, he meant. “Of course I am. Ruth and Hannah are amazing.”
“And me and the guys are…?”
“Solid tens who don’t get on my nerves too often.”
“Oh, nice, Rae.” He grinned like she was actually funny. She grinned back. They were sitting there smiling in each other’s faces like a pair of bobbleheads. She couldn’t help it; she supposed there was just something about him.
And the fact that he wasn’t laughing in her face or running screaming for the door made her wild idea seem not-so-wild anymore. “I just remembered another reason why you should come.”
He arched a brow.
“Because you’re much better looking than Kevin, so he’ll have an apoplexy. Not,” she said demurely, “that I am concerned by such shallow and immature things.”
“Oh, no way,” he agreed, like he was calm about all this. “So… you really want me to come with you? As your, uh, fake boyfriend?”
She laughed, shaking her head. “It’s silly. I know it is.” But there was an equally silly seed of hope inside her, biting its lip and watching him with wide eyes.
That seed blossomed without permission when he put down his beer and said, “Let’s do it.”
She gaped. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I’m dead serious.”
“Zach.” She gave a high, nervous laugh. “I can’t actually ask you to do that.”
He shot her an amused look. “Don’t come over all polite on me. You already asked. I’m saying yes.”
"I… I…” She stopped, cleared her throat, and pulled herself firmly together. “No. It’s too much to ask. Obviously, I’d get your ticket and everything, but you’d have to share my room at the hotel, and you’d have to book Friday off work, and—”
“So, what you’re saying here,” he drawled, “is that I get to attend this convention, which sounds pretty fucking cool, sleep on fancy hotel sheets, see you win your award—”
“I’m not going to—”
“See you win your award,” he repeated loudly, “and get time off work and good karma points. All in return for, what? Holding your hand in public and telling everyone how great you are? Wow, torture.”
For some reason, her mouth ran dry at those words. She croaked out, “Is that your boyfriend routine? Holding hands?”
He shrugged, as if this were a reasonable topic. “Part of it, yeah. But attraction isn’t about touching, not really. Not just that, anyway. Attraction is about energy.” His eyes settled on hers, oddly heavy, almost hypnotic. “About the space between two people and how loud it hums. Hot looks that burn through busy rooms.” His voice softened, sending a shiver through her. “This is one thing I know exactly how to fake. Trust me. No-one who sees us together will pity you.”
Oh, she just bet. Even now, her breath hitched under his gaze. There was no doubt in Rae’s mind that Zach could play the doting boyfriend dangerously well—so well, she’d completely forget it was fake. “It’s not a good idea.”
“It’s a great idea. Look—I know how this shit goes. Not ex-husband shit,” he added, “but messy shit. Without some kind of buffer, you’ll spend all weekend avoiding knowing looks and awkward questions. Hell, avoiding your fucking ex. I know you must have writer friends, or something like that—”
Her lips twitched, because she absolutely did not. She was too flaky to manage it.
“—but I can’t stop feeling like…” He huffed out a breath. “Like you’d be alone. At the very least, you need someone to cheer when you win that award. Why shouldn’t it be me?”
He asked the question like the answer actually mattered. She tapped her tongue against the inside of her cheek and tried to dredge up a decent response. It was difficult, not because there were none, but because a not-so-secret part of her didn’t want to argue. It wasn’t sensible or mature or especially clever, but she wanted to bring a fake boyfriend along to a work event her ex-husband was involved in. And, for reasons she couldn’t bring herself to examine too closely, she wanted that fake boyfriend to be Zach.
But one thing still bothered her. “You’re not doing this because you feel bad about Friday night, are you?”
For a moment, he actually looked thoughtful, picking up his beer and fiddling with the label. She held her breath. After a while, or possibly a lifetime, he spoke. “No. I’m doing this because I honestly think you’d do it for me.”
That was what tipped her over the edge of Decision Mountain. She smiled, the knot of tension in her belly finally loosening, the heavy dread she’d carried floating away. “I’ll make you brownies forever.”
“You’d better.”
“I’ll tell you every story before I tell anyone else.” Once she got around to writing them again.
He laughed and reminded her, “You already do.”
“I’ll owe you a thousand times over,” she insisted. She’d never meant anything more in her life.
Zach knew that helping Rae was the right decision because when he woke up the next morning, he still wanted to do it. She wasn’t there in front of him, needing him, but he still had the desire to be there for her, which meant it was real—not a bad habit, not a compulsion, not an attempt to make himself indispensable. Just a friend plotting a mildly ridiculous scheme to help another friend. Just Zach being himself.
Helping Callie with her car that weekend didn’t feel quite the same.
He didn’t often give up his Saturdays, or rather, he didn’t anymore. Once upon a time, offering the help his friends invariably needed had been part of his weekly routine. But since his mother’s diagnosis, his world had shrunk to a hopeful, hopeless pinpoint made up of frantic family, and his friends had sort of… faded. Of course, Ma was better now—or coping, anyway—so here he was, just like the old days, freezing his balls off on Callie Michaelson’s drive.
Well, no, not exactly like the old days. Before, he and Callie had been friends, so she would’ve asked him for this favour at the pub or something—instead of hunting him down at work like he was a bleeding gazelle.
Zach paused under the hood of her car, the uncharitable thought catching him like a scratch
y tag in a new shirt. That wasn’t really how it had happened, was it? She’d just been passing by. It had been pure chance. But as he bent over Callista’s engine, hands busy, mind idle, it almost felt like his time was being spent for him. This favour was so much smaller than the one he’d happily offered Rae, but it felt a hell of a lot heavier.
Before he could dwell on that, a familiar, reedy voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Zachary Davis! I thought that was you!”
Enid Hutton wobbled toward him on her stick-thin legs, her threadbare cardigan flapping in the brisk wind and a big, steaming mug in her bony, wrinkled hands.
He dropped his wrench so fast he almost broke his own toe, then hurried over to take the mug. “Enid, what are you doing out here? Where’s your stick?”
“Oh, bugger my stick. I can walk up the drive and pop next door without it, thank you very much.” She glared grey-sky eyes at him and tutted, but when he offered his arm, she clung to it quite happily.
“You’re supposed to use it all the time,” he told her sternly. “Where’s your grandson?”
“Never mind him.” Enid flapped a hand as though the man she lived with was a mild irritation. “That’s for you, my darling.” She nodded at the tea.
Zach grinned despite himself. “Aw, Enid. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, Lord knows Her Majesty won’t bother,” Enid snorted, rolling her eyes toward Callie’s house. “She’s sitting inside, wrapped up warm, while you sort her car out for free, isn’t she?”
Zach took a sip of hot, milky tea before answering. “No use her standing out here and getting cold.”
“No use is right,” Enid muttered. “But it’s lovely to see you, my darling. You haven’t been round this side of town in months and months, now.”
“Been busy. My mum…”
“I know, sweetheart.” Enid patted his hand. “I suppose you weren’t in the mood for any of Callie’s lovely barbecues last summer?”
No, Zach hadn’t been. Although, his mood might have improved if anyone had thought to invite him to those barbecues. Or tell him he’d been missed. Or ask if he was okay.
Or remember he existed at all.
“Thing is,” he hedged, “I haven’t seen Callie for a long time.” Since his mum’s diagnosis, actually. He hadn’t seen a lot of people since then.
Enid’s lip curled. “Fair-weather friends.” She must have seen something in his expression—the dawning realisation, or the disappointment that followed—because she flashed him a too-bright smile. “But I’d better be going inside. I’ll never hear the end of it if I catch a chill.”
“Oh, yeah, of course. Let’s get you in.” Zach helped Enid down her drive, promising to leave the mug inside the kitchen windowsill when he was done. Then he returned to Callie’s car and stared at the engine while his thoughts lurched around drunkenly.
Was Callie a fair-weather friend? Was she one of those people who’d been happy to hang out with the eternally cheerful Zach, but couldn’t be bothered with the stressed and depressed version he’d become after his mother’s illness?
Had Callie come by the forge that day purely because she wanted something, and Ma was better now?
Not so long ago, the idea would have panicked him. Would’ve made him feel like the bullied, friendless kid no-one truly wanted around—or the boy people only bothered with because of the way he looked and the things he could provide. But for some reason, today, that feeling didn’t come.
Maybe because, these days, he had people in his life who knew he was worth more than that. People who gave him everything he’d barely dared to hope for and made him feel like he deserved it.
Zach grabbed his wrench and got back to work, a weight lifting from his shoulders.
This would be the last favour he’d do Callista Michaelson.
Chapter 6
Two Weeks Later
The hotel that hosted the Burning Quill Convention was incongruously business-y and boring. Everything—from the wide, minimalist front desk to the uncomfortable-looking chairs scattered about the foyer—was dark wood or dull, duck-egg blue. And Rae usually liked blue. Didn’t matter. This place was awful. She’d already texted Hannah a million times, ostensibly to check on Duke, but her fingers itched to pick up the phone again.
Zach’s massive shoulder nudged hers. She looked up and saw their reflections in the vast mirror above the check-in desk. Watched him bend toward her and felt his breath against her ear. “Stop freaking out,” he murmured.
She gritted her teeth. “I’m not.”
“You’re glaring at thin air like you’re ready to commit a murder. That little French girl behind the desk started stammering when we joined the queue. You have homicidal energy.”
A smile snuck onto her face. “You’re so dramatic.”
“You’re so nervous. Don’t be. We’re going to have fun.”
She looked at him, the real him, rather than his reflection. His words were light, but he had the determined expression of a man on a mission. They would have fun because he would make it so. Zach really was the best candidate for this sort of thing—and, with those sleepy, blue eyes and that welcoming mouth, the worst.
On the drive up, it had hit Rae like a brick to the face that she and Zach would share a room for three whole nights. How the hell was she supposed to cope with that? Being trapped in the car with no means of escape or distraction from his sheer sex appeal had been difficult enough. She hoped the hotel room windows opened or they’d both suffocate in the fog of her lust. This physical attraction was bloody inconvenient, and honestly? It seemed to be getting worse.
“Yes,” she agreed dutifully. “We’ll have fun.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Spending time with him: that would be fun. But acting like they were together, letting him shower her with casual affection and hot looks while knowing it was 100% fake? She had the oddest feeling she was going to hate that part.
They finally reached the desk and its French receptionist, a petite blonde with impressively fluttery eyelashes. Once, after the accident that scarred her face, Rae’s mother had insisted she try eyelash extensions because You need to make an effort, these days, darling. They’d been irritating as fuck. Rae had pulled them all out and her natural lashes had been unintended casualties. An unattractive couple of months had followed.
This receptionist looked far too chic and put together to accidentally yank out her own lashes—although she did seem slightly nervous around Rae. What had Zach said? You have homicidal energy. Despite herself, Rae chuckled under her breath. Zach caught her eye in the mirror behind the desk, and his own lips curved like he knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Bonjour sir, madame.” The blonde—Céline, according to her badge—offered them a tremulous smile. “Name?”
Zach grinned like a shark. “Oh, yeah, Rae. Tell the nice lady your name.”
She shot him a quelling look, then said calmly, “B. A. McRae.”
He bent down to whisper in her ear again. “Chicken.” He had no idea that every time he whispered to her like that, the intimacy of it destroyed her composure. He was turning her on like a tap. The scent of him, pure flame overlaid by something cool and green, like walking Duke through the woods just after dawn, made her dizzy and drunk and desperate.
She needed to control her reactions. If he ever realised how tragically in lust she was, he’d be horribly uncomfortable, and she’d have to throw herself into the Trent.
Céline clicked away at her computer for a moment, then looked up at Rae, arching perfectly plucked eyebrows. Yeah, yeah. What a name, blah, blah. To her credit, Céline didn’t say a word, just tapped some more and said, “You’re in room eleven-fifteen. Would you like one key or two?”
“Two, please.”
The hotel was already rammed, convention-goers checking in, hanging about at the bar, or taking selfies in front of the banners decorating the foyer. Those banners, with their bold images of iconic fantasy covers, looked as out of place i
n the business hotel as the convention-goers themselves. Rae checked off types as she led the way to the lifts: excited influencers, antisocial writers, harried assistants, and speculative agents and editors wondering who they’d discover this time. Her own agent was here somewhere, but she was in no hurry to see him or anyone else she knew.
Concocting this ridiculous plan had been all fun and games, but now they were here, Rae knew it wouldn’t work. How did you fake a relationship? She was forty years old, for Christ’s sake. She didn’t do shit like this. Zach could support her just fine while being exactly what he was: a dear friend whose loveliness occasionally—okay, regularly—made her melt. That was more than enough.
Muttering nervously under her breath, she hit the gleaming button for the lift. While she was distracted, Zach snagged her suitcase, biceps bulging as he lifted it along with his own.
“Give it back,” she said, already resigned to the fact that he absolutely wouldn’t.
His laughing eyes focused on the lift doors instead of her. Zach-speak for This is not a debate. “No. It’s heavy.”
“Which is why I should be carrying it.”
“Shut up,” he said. “Who lets his girlfriend carry her own shit? Kevins, that’s who.”
He was like a mugger, stealing her smiles at gunpoint. “Zach…”
One dark brow arched, deliciously arrogant. “Don’t pretend you’re pissed. I always know when you’re faking it. That’s my specialty.”
“Spotting fakes?” She cocked her head. “How ironic.”
“Hey. Stay in character.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
“You’re flirting with confession, sunshine.” He looked around warily, like they were running from the mob. “You never know who’s listening.”
“Oh, for God’s—”
The ding and slide of elevator doors interrupted her eyeroll. Fuck. A pair of men she recognised stepped out of the shiny chrome box, their eyes widening as they caught sight of her. It’d been years since she’d seen Mark and Ed Pike, brothers and cowriters with a love of cheap Scotch, loud conversation, and thoughtless, nasty ‘opinions.’ Mark was the elder, his fringe of dark hair being rapidly swallowed by a pink bald patch, his brow permanently furrowed. Ed, the taller of the two, still had a thick head of waves, along with green eyes so bright they could stop traffic. Those eyes were the only interesting thing about him. Both men were rather average in appearance—which would be fine, if they weren’t convinced they were sex gods sent to save the planet with the power of their mighty wangs.
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