Maybe It's Real

  “Owen is real. He’s very real. He’s six feet two inches and 180 pounds of law enforcement officer real. Side note: don’t ask me to invest in your sleazy phone sext app.”

  “He’s a cop?” Fraser shifted in his seat. “What does he think about the junkie brother?”

  “Now I know you’re not supposed to use that kind of language about yourself. You’re not a junkie. The only reason he knows you were in rehab is because I lent him your stupid shirt with marijuana on it, and I got flustered, and it came out. Which it shouldn’t have because it’s not my story to tell. Sorry. Other than that, we haven’t discussed it. If he has a problem with it, I’ll have a problem with him. Brothers before lovers.”

  “I’m not sure that’s something you say to me. Also, why did you give him my shirt?”

  “I spilled coffee on him. Bad date. It’s not important.”

  “Don’t you want to know what he texted? Because this is dirty stuff, Chlo. I’m taking notes. For my app.”

  She eyed him. “It is not.”

  “So dirty.”

  “Really?”

  “No. The last one said, ‘Been busy, let’s catch up’. Sounds like a keeper.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Since Jim’s barbecue, Owen had been buried at work. It was summer, the weather was great, and San Francisco’s criminals were out there making the most of it, having fun like everyone else.

  Except they were having fun with bullets and drugs and murder and knives.

  And the paperwork that came with it? Unbelievable.

  Owen had worked through the weekend. On Wednesday night he flopped into bed, exhausted, set his alarm for five a.m., turned off his light, and shoved an arm under the pillow, getting comfortable. It was too warm for covers, and he kicked them down to the bottom of the bed.

  He tried lying first on one side, then flipped to the other. Then back again. He lay on his back and counted his breaths in an attempt to calm his buzzing brain, but it was no use.

  He couldn’t sleep.

  Stretching out a hand to the nightstand, he snagged his phone. Bunching the pillows under his head, he navigated to his text conversation with Chloe. He smiled when he saw the fake couple picture he’d taken weeks ago, then he reread the whole thing, from the first text to the latest.

  The latest had been five days ago.

  Owen let out a huff of surprise.

  Five days?

  Worse, the last few texts he’d sent had been variations on a theme of hey, busy, catch up soon.

  As opposed to Chloe’s texts.

  Her side of the conversation was a mix of her usual cheerful nonsense chronicling their outrageous fake-dating life, the photo from Jim’s that had captured him astonished and dripping with soda, and, randomly, an Internet video of a Labrador Retriever with the brood of baby ducks the dog had adopted.

  Owen skimmed through the conversation again. It had started out great, and then it had fizzled.

  No.

  He’d fizzled.

  Chloe had kept it up. Until five days ago. His last hey, busy, catch up soon hadn’t gotten a reply. And he was only now noticing.

  He really was the worst at relationships, wasn’t he? Even when it was pretend.

  Chloe deserved better than this.

  The phone screen went dark and Owen glared into the gloom of his bedroom. He had to think of something to text her.

  Not another text that sounded like a disinterested brush-off. Something that conveyed his interest, his regard for her, his affection. Something about the way seeing her name pop up on his screen brightened his day. About how he wished that every single one of their dates (apart from the dance workshop. Just, no) were real, how the thought of not seeing her again left him hollow…

  His brain stuttered. What did he mean, he wished it was real? Did he—

  The phone in his hand lit up.

  It was 11:56 p.m. and Chloe had beaten him to the punch. She’d texted.

  Owen’s skin prickled.

  She was somewhere across the city, thinking of him as he was thinking of her.

  He unlocked his phone and read the text, eager to find out what ridiculous date they’d been on this time.

  CHLOE: I met the most interesting man today.

  Owen stared at the screen.

  This was…not what he had expected.

  Was she talking about a patient at work?

  OWEN: Yeah?

  CHLOE: His name is Marcus…

  Owen growled. Not a patient.

  CHLOE: He says he’s a humble cowboy/artist from Montana, road-tripping across the country in search of inspiration and adventure. Asked me if I’d be interested in helping him out with his next piece. Apparently, he paints on skin. What’s your professional opinion? Serial killer? Or intriguingly kinky?

  Without hesitating, Owen hit the dial button. “Serial killer,” he said when Chloe answered. “A cowboy called Marcus? That’s a red flag. You should stay away from him.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know. I’m tempted. He mentioned something about taking me on a journey I’d never forget.”

  “Yeah. In the trunk of his Chevy truck. ‘Road-tripping’ all the way into the wild mountains of Montana, where he’ll keep you captive in his off-grid cabin. Every day he’ll ‘artistically’ paint you with spots like a leopard, call you his pretty kitty, and I will spend the next thirty years consumed by the state-wide hunt for you. Avoid this man.”

  Chloe burst out laughing. “Thirty years? Am I at least alive when you find me?”

  Owen slid down against his pillows, resting his free hand low on his abs. “I never find you. In thirty years, I take retirement. Then I move to Florida. I think of you fondly from time to time, but I try not to. My bittersweet memories of our too-short relationship are tainted with the knowledge that, if only you had listened to me about the psycho cowboy, you could be at my side, soaking up the sun. In Tampa.”

  “I have got to hand it to you, Owen. Your imagination really kicks it up a gear when it comes to crime. It also gets weird real quick. I mean…Tampa?”

  “I’ve experienced more crime than romance. As for Tampa, it’s practical. Cheaper than Miami, same sun.”

  “You think I should tell this Marcus to take a hike?”

  “Yes. Your current fake boyfriend is the jealous type.”

  “Good thing I already turned Marcus down, then.”

  Owen smiled. “Chloe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Your current fake boyfriend is also not very good at holding up his end of the pretend relationship.”

  “You don’t have to be good at it. That was kind of the whole point, wasn’t it?” She sighed. “It’s pretend.” Her voice turned brisk. “I planned on calling you tomorrow to get the details on the wedding. Dress code, location, and so on. Then you don’t have to worry about the rest of it. The texting. And stuff. It was a bit of fun, not something to make you feel like you’re not performing adequately, or to be a drain on your time. You’re busy out there fighting crime.”

  Owen sat up. “I want to worry about the rest of it.”

  “Owen—”

  “I do. You’re doing me a hell of a favor. More than that, I’m enjoying my damn self. Your messages make me smile. You make me smile. I like what we’re doing. I like us.”

  Owen was surprised at himself for coming out and saying it. It was the truth, but he wasn’t usually this good at sharing his feelings. It must be the exhaustion. Or the late hour. Or the intimacy of talking to her on the phone in a darkened bedroom, even if they were in separate bedrooms with the city between them.

  “You do?” Chloe asked.

  “Yes. And I don’t want to stop. Unless you—”

  “Nope. I’m good.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll try to be better about replying to your texts.”

  “Don’t have to.”

  “But—”

  “Seriously. You don’t have to. As long as
we’re still having a good time.” A hint of uncertainty colored her words. “As long as you don’t see my name on your screen and think, oh god, why is this woman texting me again?”

  “I can’t imagine anyone would think that about you,” he said.

  “We’ve already established that your imagination isn’t your best-developed muscle.”

  “Except for when it comes to crime.”

  “Yes. Except for your ability to imagine disturbing, creepy crime. Paint me like a leopard, Owen? Pretty kitty?”

  “I’ve come across some weird shit over the years.”

  “In your job? Or are you talking about weird shit you ‘just happened’ upon because your finger slipped on the mouse and would you look at that? You didn’t mean to, but the video clip’s playing now, so you may as well watch it to the end and then follow the link…”

  Owen relaxed against the pillows and grinned into the darkness, listening to her talk.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Chloe didn’t give herself time to second-guess it. She hit send.

  CHLOE: I’ll be in your area of the city around lunch. Want to grab a sandwich?

  To her surprise, Owen got right back to her.

  OWEN: Sounds good. Will only have 20-30 mins free. Still worth it?

  CHLOE: Still worth it.

  OWEN: Does 1 p.m. work?

  CHLOE: Yep. Outside your building?

  OWEN: See you then ;)

  “What’s got you so happy this morning?” Fraser asked, shuffling into the kitchen.

  Chloe put her phone back on the table. When she’d passed through the living room a minute ago, he’d been fast asleep on the couch, long legs hanging over the arm, and his blanket on the floor. “Did I wake you?” she said.

  “Coffee woke me.” He continued his shuffle all the way over to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup. He eyed her toast.

  “Make your own,” Chloe told him, and took an enormous bite. “Any luck finding a job?”

  “Eh. No.”

  “Can I ask Anna now?”

  Fraser turned to face her as he waited on his toast. His hands curled around his coffee cup and he lifted it to inhale the steam as he studied her face. “You know why I don’t want that.”

  Because he didn’t want her hitting her friends up to find work for her just-out-of-rehab brother. Fraser was easygoing most of the time, but when his pride was on the line, he could get surprisingly prickly.

  He’d tossed his bags behind her couch when she brought him home and within an hour had headed back out to start looking for work.

  Chloe had insisted he could take all the time he needed, but Fraser hated lazing around, and the last thing she wanted was to undermine his motivation. When she’d floated the idea of asking Anna if she knew of anything suitable, he’d declined the offer. He’d been polite about it, but firm.

  Staying with her was acceptable.

  Having her find him a job was not.

  Almost two weeks later, his frustration was a tangible thing.

  He sighed. “Let me think about it?”

  It was better than a flat no. “Okay. It’ll most likely be construction work, and it’ll be hard.”

  “That’s what I’m looking for.”

  “And you’re not trained, so you’ll get all the shit jobs.”

  “I do not care. Another week of being stuck in your apartment, and I’ll happily be Anna’s office pet.”

  “The pay would be better,” Chloe mused. “But she’d make you wear a tie. And probably you’d have to call her Ma’am. Or Mistress.”

  Anna and Fraser would drive each other insane in a day.

  “Construction, hey?” he said. “Tell me more.”

  Chloe called Anna when she was waiting for Owen outside his building a few hours later, with a paper bag of sandwiches. Anna promised that she’d have Fraser lined up with something by the end of the day. Then she asked where Chloe was.

  “Waiting for Owen,” Chloe said. “We’re having lunch.”

  There was a brief silence. “I thought you were fake-dating him?”

  “I am,” Chloe said in surprise.

  “But you’re having lunch?”

  “Yes?”

  “That sounds like an actual date, Chloe.”

  “I—”

  “Kind of like going to his coworker’s barbecue sounded like an actual date.”

  “I like hanging out with him. He’s a friend.”

  “Who you’re dating.”

  “Who I’m fake-dating,” Chloe said, then looked around in panic, sure that there would be someone standing behind her, Jim or Rick or Shannon, who she saw at yoga every Thursday, and they’d go aha! and she’d have dropped Owen in it. She was alone. Chloe sighed with relief.

  “If you say so,” Anna said.

  “I do say so.” Chloe heard her name called. She turned to see Owen coming toward her, his smile wide. Her heart skipped a beat. “I have to go.”

  “Boyfriend there?”

  “Fake-boyfriend,” Chloe snarled, and hung up. “Hi!” she said as Owen reached her. “Ulk.”

  He’d pulled her into a hard hug, lifting her up on her toes.

  Okay. Play along. Chloe wrapped her arms around him.

  Owen held on.

  Okay…?

  She put a hand around his neck and pecked a friendly kiss on his lips.

  Owen made a surprised noise before he returned the kiss, firm and hot. With obvious reluctance he released her. “Hi.”

  “Hi. Hello. Hey there.” Stop greeting him. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Mmm,” he said. His eyes snapped up to hers. “Yes. For sandwiches. Very hungry.”

  “Good.” Chloe raised the bag she was holding at the same time as Owen lifted his own in a crinkle of plastic. “Hah. I thought I was buying,” she said.

  “I thought I was buying.”

  “Did you? Or is this a defensive play because you were scared that I’d make you eat a vegetable?”

  “Shows what you know,” Owen said. “Both of the sandwiches I bought are vegetarian.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.” He was very pleased with himself.

  “I bought you a roast beef and swiss on rye.”

  “My god, I love you.” Owen switched their bags and peered in eagerly. “I thought meat was against your principles?”

  “Not eating meat is a personal choice. What’s against my principles is forcing my principles down other peoples’ throats. Anywhere around here we can go to get out of the sun and eat?” Chloe asked.

  “Yeah. Come on.” He strode off, then reached back and took her elbow, tugging her after him.

  She jogged a couple of steps to keep up. “We’re in a hurry?”

  Owen slowed—not by much—and said, “I don’t have long. I want to make the most of you. Of it. Of lunch.”

  Ten minutes later they were spread out on the blanket Chloe produced from her oversized tote. The park Owen had led her to was small and, going on the number of people enjoying the day, popular with the lunch crowd as well as the usual tourists.

  “This is nice.” Owen gazed around. “I don’t know why I don’t eat lunch out here more often.”

  “Where do you usually eat?” Chloe passed Owen one of the bottles of water she’d bought along with the sandwiches.

  “At my desk. In the car. Maybe grab something from a café.” He gestured at their surroundings. “Big improvement.”

  “This is where I could treat you to a gentle reminder about the necessity of not sitting for too long without moving, which I would then follow up with an impromptu lecture on the importance of fresh air and the regular consumption of healthy food and snacks during your work day. Also hydration.” She shook her water at him before taking a sip.

  “You could. But you’re not going to.”

  “I’m not. I’d hate to bring down the mood.” Owen was staring at her. “What?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Chloe pointe
d at his face. “That’s not nothing.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Tell me.” She drew the bag of sandwiches toward her and guarded it. “I shall withhold food.”

  Owen tapped the other bag that sat on the ground beside him. “Got food right here.”

  “Oh, hey, is that Jim?” Chloe sat up and waved over Owen’s shoulder. “I didn’t know he was joining us.”

  Scowling, Owen looked behind him.

  She snatched the second bag of sandwiches away. “God, you’re easy. I’m embarrassed for you. Now tell.”

  “Fine. I was thinking that you’re a good woman, Chloe Abbott.”

  She blinked. “Thank you.” She handed the sandwiches back.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Unwrapping his food, he continued, “You didn’t have to do all this.”

  “It’s a fifteen-minute sandwich, a bottle of water, and a blanket. No big deal.”

  He leaned forward and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. “I mean us. Why did you agree to go along with it?” His chestnut eyes were warm and focused on her.

  “At first?” Chloe took a bite of her Mediterranean vegetable wrap and chewed. He waited patiently for her to swallow. “At first it was funny. Come on. A hot guy like you pretending to have a girlfriend?”

  “You think I’m hot?”

  “Bitch, please.” Grinning, she said over his burst of laughter, “The surface of the sun’s got nothing on you.”

  “I’m hotter than the sun, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “I had no idea. Are you wearing sunblock? I’d hate to be burning you with my hotness.”

  She stuck a hand in her tote, pulled out a tube and showed it to him. “I am protected.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “Anyway, there was no reason to humiliate you in front of everyone at Roscoe’s. And then we had a good date. Well, it wasn’t a date. But the dinner was good. We got on, I enjoyed hanging out with you. Why not help you out? Trust me, if you’d turned out to be the asshole you appeared to be on our first date, we would not be sharing sandwiches on a blanket on this fine and sunny day. You’d be nothing more than another sad chapter in the saga of my disastrous dating life.”