by Elise Faber
Could be that she liked tacos and wine too much, but for the life of her—and it would be a sad, meaningless one if she had to live without tacos and wine—she couldn’t give them up.
Crunchy or soft, red or white, boxed or out of the bottle, from Taco Bell or from the legit hole-in-the-wall restaurant around the corner from her apartment.
Her standards were low.
Fill her belly, give her a buzz, and she was golden.
She was also delaying, because she knew what she was going to do. It was why she’d done her makeup, her hair, why she’d gotten dressed and slipped on her favorite heels.
It was Thursday.
Family dinner was tomorrow.
And she wanted to keep that joy in her Mom’s tone. Look, she wasn’t a saint, she wasn’t going to pretend her actions were purely altruistic, but she just wanted to fit in with her family for once.
Not be the odd man out.
Not be the single lady at the couple’s party.
She wanted to just . . . be.
Not to mention that Jaime the Vet was hot—a sexy, brown-haired Viking with a man bun that made her jealous, who took care of puppies and kitties and the occasional bearded dragon, based on his pics.
Puppies and kitties and bearded dragons. Who could resist?
Especially when the last picture of a bearded dragon that she’d seen had been wearing a crocheted purple vest.
“I mean, come on,” she muttered, turning away from the mirror and picking up her purse. Because for all her prevaricating, the truth was that she’d always been planning on going.
She headed down the hall, toward the front door.
“Okay, Kate McLeod,” she said out loud to herself, pausing with her hand on the knob. “This isn’t a big deal. First, suss out he’s not going to take me home and bury me in his nonexistent basement. Then we go to one family dinner together and one Christmas party. After which I fake an implosive fight and we both go on our separate ways.” Purse over her arm, firm nod in agreement already halfway complete. “There. Done.”
Straightening her shoulders, she tugged open the door and stepped out onto the porch.
Jaime the Vet.
She hoped he came with animals.
He did not, in fact, come with animals.
He did not, in fact, come at all.
And as she sat at the table by herself, having long ago consumed the entire breadbasket, her heart sinking, her inner critic grew exponentially in volume because . . . of course he wouldn’t come. She was a strange woman who’d asked via freaking direct message to pretend to be her fiancé for a week.
That was a special brand of psycho.
Men like Jaime the Vet did not voluntarily sign up for that particular brand of cray cray.
Would it have just been nicer for him to ignore her message?
Or to just say no?
Fuck yes, it would have been.
But alas, not all on the Instagram was real, and then there was her superpower—the one that turned nice men into assholes.
It was probably some compulsion she’d woven through the airwaves, a subliminal message hidden in between the letters saying, “Turn into a lying, evil bastard upon reading this message.”
Or . . . there could be something in the bread.
Or it could be the third glass of wine.
“Did you want to order?” the nice waitress, who’d been patiently refilling the breadbasket all evening, asked.
Kate sighed, part of her wanting to slink home and feel sorry for herself. The rest of her figured she’d done her hair, put on a dress and heels, was wearing her fancy red lipstick, so yes, she should just order a plate of expensive pasta, another glass of wine, and carbo-load away her happiness.
Hell, she might even live extra vicariously and order a slice of that chocolate cake she’d seen float by on a tray earlier.
“Yes,” she said decisively. “I’ll have the pasta al pomodoro.”
“Me, too.”
Lightning.
Like that image from the Marvel movie, Thor lifting his hammer up to the sky, a deluge of electricity exploding from the clouds to coalesce on his weapon.
His voice did that to her.
Collided with her nape, exploded out through her limbs, firing her nerve endings, bringing them to rigid awareness as that deep rumble filled her ears.
“Sorry,” the waitress said, sounding a little dazed, and Kate couldn't blame her, not when her cells felt like they’d been lit up like glow sticks at a rave. “What was that?” the waitress asked.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” that sexy male voice said, and Kate was still reeling from it when he moved around the table and sat down in the chair opposite her. “Hi,” he murmured, as the waitress nodded and slipped away. Kate barely noticed, not when he was beyond fucking sexy with that rueful smile on his lips. “I’m really sorry I’m late.”
Heat. Desire.
That fucking man bun.
Then her mind cleared. Because late? Late?
Kate glared over at him and grabbed the last roll, tearing a huge bite off with her teeth. “This is mine,” she snapped. Or well, tried to anyway, the words came out muffled. “I can’t believe you almost stood me up.”
Pale brown eyes dimmed. “Damn. You didn’t get my message.” He ignored her warning and reached across the table, snagged a piece of the roll. “I’m sorry, Red,” he murmured, popping it into his mouth.
Anger gave way to confusion. “Um, what?”
He chewed and swallowed then nodded at her purse. “I’m guessing you didn’t check your messages.”
As a matter of fact . . . she hadn’t.
“There was a complication with my last surgery of the day. I had to stay late, make sure he was okay,” he said. “I didn’t have your number, so I couldn’t call, but I sent you a message on Insta. But when I didn’t hear back, saw it seemed like you hadn’t read it in the app, I worried you’d be here, and . . .”
“You came to check,” she whispered. Confusion gave way to melting.
As in, she went melty inside. Shit.
“I didn’t want you to be sitting here alone.” His eyes drifted to the empty breadbasket, the drained wineglass. “I see I was too late anyway.”
Regret in his tone, those brown eyes soft.
“It’s okay,” she murmured. “It’s my fault. I should have thought to check.”
The waitress came back then, two glasses of wine in her hand and another basket. See? She was damned good.
“Thank you,” he said, smiling that wide gorgeous smile, and the waitress blinked as she left.
Kate was doing some blinking of her own. He was wearing a nice, but slightly wrinkled, blue button-down and jeans, hair-covered ones if the slight glimpse of his leg she’d gotten held true. There was stubble on his jaw, lines of fatigue surrounding his eyes.
He’d had a long day but still came to check on her.
A stranger.
A good guy.
“Were the complications serious?” she asked, heart twisting. Because she was worried about the animal, not the fact that she might fall for the good guy.
“Not great,” he said. “Turns out, the little man has an underlying heart condition. It will take some further steps to determine the cause and follow-up treatment.”
“Poor guy,” she murmured.
“He’s a tough one.” Jaime smiled. “But he was soaking up all the extra attention like a champ. When I left, he was trying to crawl into my tech’s pocket.”
She pushed the bread in his direction, placed her own roll on her plate, pretending she had manners for at least a few moments. Then she asked, “Was the little attention mooch a dog or a cat?”
Must be a small one if he was trying to crawl into pockets.
Maybe a teacup poodle?
Or it could be a non-furry critter, another bearded dragon.
Jaime’s lips curved further. “Oh, Hank is a guinea pig. We call him Hank the Tank because he eats
like crazy but is really small for his variety.” He picked up his roll. “His favorite snacks are kale stems and cantaloupe.”
A guinea pig named Hank the Tank, who liked kale and cantaloupe.
“Does he wear a vest?” she asked, heart already squee-ing in anticipation.
“No,” Jaime said. “But he does have a tiny bowtie collar.”
And boom, just like that, her ovaries exploded under the power of squeedom.
Three
Jaime
He stared across the table at a woman he probably should have avoided at all costs.
She’d asked him to participate in a scheme that involved lying to her family. Maybe he could have justified it because who cared, he was lying to people he didn’t know, wouldn’t know again, but he was a man who preferred honesty.
Had the lying ex once, got the souvenir T-shirt, wasn’t going to visit again.
That alone should have been enough ammunition for him to not reply to the message in the first place, let alone agree to the deception.
Except . . . he’d been following KateMcFunPants on Instagram for more than a year now.
She was the friend of a friend—apparently worked in the marketing department of Steele Technologies, a large tech company headquartered in San Francisco. His friend, Ben, was friends with Sebastian, a higher-up at the company, and Ben had been photographed with Sebastian and Kate(McFunPants) at a few events together. Jaime had been intoxicated first by her mouth, spread wide in a million-dollar smile, then had latched onto her eyes, her curvy body, and he’d followed her. She’d reciprocated, and they’d liked a few of each other’s posts—not an obsessive amount going back months and years, but a few here and there.
This was romance in the age of social media, and it was important to use the proper amount of creepage . . . at least publicly.
Because privately?
He’d gone way back, far enough to see her feed dotted with more events from Steele Technologies and ex-boyfriends and girls’ nights, but he hadn’t liked anything from then. He’d been playing the long game—slow and steady, get her comfortable, then boom, swoop in for a date and have her fall for him.
He’d commented on the meme she’d made of fantasy versus reality—in her case a picture of her at goat yoga juxtaposed with one of a model for the company. The half of the meme that featured Kate was an action shot, a goat perched on her head, eating her tank top, as her hands slipped out from beneath her during downward dog. Her expression, along with the goat’s, was hilarious, and so far removed from the model’s that he’d actually laughed out loud as he’d gotten off BART.
That had earned a few dirty looks in the otherwise quiet train and station, but frankly, the denizens of this city had seen far worse.
She’d liked his comments, and communications had increased.
Date night was in the near future.
At least, that was how it had gone in his head.
But it seemed to be destined to continue that way—remain in his mind and not in real life—unless he got his head out of his ass and pulled the trigger on the whole date thing. The problem was that he was a bit gun shy. Which was the point where his brain circled back to his lying ex and the reason for being gun shy in the first place. They’d originally connected on the ‘gram and that had ended . . .
Well, a heat sinking missile had nothing on him and Lori.
Kate was staring up at him with big brown eyes, her long red hair tucked behind one ear, and he was struck again by how pretty she was. And he didn’t mean that in a shallow, asshole way, like a woman’s worth was only measured in the way she looked. Jaime meant that there was something warm and comforting and just really nice inside her, and it seeped through her smile, shone through those golden-brown eyes, and it felt good to have it directed at him.
Even when she was looking accusingly over her roll at him.
So much so that he found he couldn’t resist the urge to tease her. He reached out and snagged another piece of that roll she was so protective of.
“Hey!” she gasped.
He grinned. “I think we missed a few steps.”
“Like you eating your own roll?” She shoved the basket at him.
“Like me saying, Hi, Kate, it’s nice to meet you,” he said.
She’d sucked in a breath, no doubt to berate him about the roll, but froze when he spoke. Then made a face. It was fucking cute, that little wrinkle over the bridge of her nose. A heartbeat later, it disappeared, her expression smoothing out, and she sighed. “Damn,” she said. “We did miss that part, didn’t we?”
Jaime shrugged. “Fiancés don’t normally need introductions.”
Her cheeks colored, but she kept her eyes on his. “You know, you don’t have to do this.”
Another shrug. “I know.”
“Then why are you?”
That was the question of the hour, wasn’t it?
He hesitated and then figured the best course was to just tell her the truth, albeit a non-stalking of her Instagram profile version of the truth. “You’re gorgeous, and you seem nice, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping to find a way to ask you on a date.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You?” A shake of her head. “Me? A date?”
Shit. He hadn’t gotten the non-creepy vibe down. Jaime cleared his throat. “Yeah, and well, my family is . . . complicated, and I figured yours must be the same if you were asking, and also that you wouldn’t have asked unless you’d gotten pretty far down your list and were getting really desperate.”
The roll fell from her hand to the plate. “Desperate?” she parroted.
“Yeah, I mean—” He shrugged. “I’m not exactly—um—” Double shit. He was fucking this up, making it weird. “It’s just we’re not exactly friends, and . . . well I—”
Cursing inwardly, knowing he wasn’t making any sense, Jaime picked up his own roll, cut it in half so he could lather it with butter. When he risked a glance at Kate, he saw she was studying him closely.
“Insecurity knows no bounds, does it?” she said, and it wasn’t pity but rather warmth in her eyes. “You were the only person I asked, Jaime. I’ve been fantasizing about you for months.” A self-deprecating shrug. “Well, about you and your adorable little animals you take care of on a daily basis.”
Her admission relaxed him, and lips curving, he admitted something he had only told a few close buddies. “I only take pictures with the cute ones. The ugly and mean ones don’t merit a selfie.”
She smiled at him, and he felt it right in the pit of his stomach. “That’s terrible.”
He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. “The ones who scratch me don’t get photo ops either.”
“Ouch.” She reached across the table, brushed her fingers lightly over the injury. The scrapes weren’t deep, and while the injury had hurt like hell when it had happened—courtesy of claws from a mean old senior cat with a toothache—the scratches hadn’t needed much more than a good cleaning. “Why do you do it?” she asked, pulling her hand back.
“The pictures? Or the animals?” he asked.
“The pictures.” A shake of her head paired with a sheepish smile. “Both.”
“I’ll tell you all,” he said, deliberately making his tone sound like one of those late-night psychics. “But I need you to tell me something first.” He tilted his head to the side. “Well, no, two things.”
She ran her fingers through the long red strands of her hair, tucked a few pieces that had come lose back behind her ear. “What are they?”
“First, what’s your last name?”
A flash of that pretty, generous smile. “McLeod.” A beat. “Yours?”
“Huntington.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Fits.” A nod. “And the second thing?”
“Was I really the first person you asked?”
Gentle golden-brown eyes, a soft curve to her lips. “Yes, Jaime,” she murmured. “The first one. The only one.” White teeth closing over a plum
p red bottom lip. “I wasn’t lying before. You’re not the only one who’s done some Insta fantasizing.”
“I—”
But whatever he was going to say—and fuck if he knew what he’d been about to force out—was lost when the waitress set down a plate in front of Kate then an identical one in front of him.
“You guys have everything you need?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you,” they said at almost the same time.
The waitress left, and Jaime found himself staring at Kate, the steam from the pasta wafting up and coating his face. But he barely felt it because he couldn’t believe she’d asked him first.
They had a connection.
He’d been discounting it because . . . well, social media wasn’t real life.
He’d been discounting it because he’d thought that no way could she be into him, not like he was into her.
He’d been discounting it because . . . he’d been off his game for months.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, twining some pasta around her fork.
“Which one?”
“Why you do the whole social media Jaime the Vet thing?”
“Oh.” He picked up his own fork. “At first, it was just exciting to have animals to work on, and I wanted to document it. Also”—he grinned, thinking of his mom and her demand for information about his life. She was great, but sometimes needy, and it had been an easy way for her to stay in the loop without having to call her every day—“for my parents. They liked knowing what was up, and it was better than them hounding me about my dating life.”
She chuckled as she brought her fork to her mouth, the bite of pasta hitting her tongue, drawing his attention to those plump lips as she chewed and swallowed, a soft moan drifting through the air.
A soft moan that was way too sexy for a first date.
Although . . . not too sexy for a fiancé?
No. Mentally, he smacked himself. Fake fiancé. The keyword being fake.