The Fake Date Agreement (Awkward Arrangements Book 1)

by Tanya Gallagher

  The narrow aisles of the bookstore give me an excuse to step closer to him, and I rock onto my tiptoes to reach closer to his ear, permitting me a waft of his rich, intoxicating cologne. “You’re keeping me out late on a school night.” I try to keep the nerves out of my voice so I don’t betray just how much he affects me.

  He leans closer to me too, like his body wants to give in to the same subliminal pull as mine. “I promise it’ll be worth it.” He inclines his head toward the rear of the bookstore, where rows of folding chairs surround a tiny wooden stage. “Come on, I saved us some seats.”

  My booties click on the polished wood floor as I follow him toward the seating area, where his hunter green jacket drapes across two chairs to reserve them. We take our seats as the crowd fills in around us, and this tiny space—his leg and shoulder brushing against mine—feels like a bubble in the middle of the chaos.

  It’s actually weird to sit next to Locke instead of face him. It’s the tiniest shift in position from our normal workday spots, but it feels a million degrees different. More intimate, somehow.

  I study the name on the podium at the front of the sea of chairs. “Have you read Orion Crux before?” I ask.

  Locke licks his lips and nods. I should drag my eyes back up to his, but I keep staring at his mouth—the kissable curve of it, the way his lips pull back to reveal straight, white teeth, and how his smile presses dimples into his cheeks. “He’s one of my favorite poets.”

  Poetry—oh.

  I’d expected fiction, but somehow I’m not surprised. Locke’s always struck me as the type of person who feels deeply, who’s not afraid of his sensitivity. One morning this summer he came into the office, his face damp with tears after listening to a podcast where a widower told a story about his late wife.

  “You’re brave, showing emotion like that,” I’d whispered into the dark morning.

  “Empathy makes you a better writer.”

  “And a better human.”

  He’d let out a surprised laugh like he’d never even considered how good he was. “Yeah, I guess, and that.”

  Now Locke gestures at the stage. “He writes anonymously,” Locke says. “Orion Crux is a pseudonym, but he mostly just goes by Orion. He actually started as an Instagram poet, and he’s up around a million or so followers right now.”

  “Damn,” I whistle. The only thing I have a million of is dust bunnies.

  “Yeah. But the whole deal is he thinks being anonymous helps readers connect more personally to his work, so when he does book tours, he tries to stay as low-key as possible. He’ll probably show up tonight in a mask.”

  I laugh. “A mask? Like Zorro?”

  Locke grins. “Guess we’ll have to see.”

  I nod and break the trance to glance out over the crowd. All around us, books reach toward the high, lofted ceilings and fill the air with the scent of paper and dreams.

  Bookstores, god. They just do something beautiful to my heart. Like I’m surrounded by thousands of friends, like possibility and hope brim within every uncreased spine.

  I catch Locke staring at me out of the corner of my eye, and I spin to face him. “What?”

  “You just look…” He swallows hard, and his eyes search out mine. “Happy.”

  I am happy. More than happy. I hold the knowledge of it in my chest, where it blooms into something dangerously close to love.

  “I am,” I whisper. “Bookstores are my favorite place in the world. They just have everything you could ever need, you know?”

  He smiles. “I know. It’s like, when you die, you don’t take any of this with you.” He waves around the room, and I understand this to mean things, stuff. “But stories live with you forever.”

  Yes.

  God, yes.

  My heart physically aches—hurts so damn much I have to press a hand to my chest and suck in a deep breath. And I want to tell him, Don’t do this. Don’t let me fall in love with you. Because giving me a book is like giving me a piece of your heart, and if I like it, I will fall in love with you.

  I lift my glasses to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye—why the hell am I crying?—and Locke gives me a second to compose myself, not hurrying me, just letting the emotions come.

  “You ever have a book that’s so good you don’t want to read the last page because you don’t want it to end?” Locke asks.

  His question does the trick, shimmying me back into my skin, where I blink at him, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? I need to know how things are going to turn out.”

  He grins. “Want to know a secret?”

  “Yes.” Obviously. All of them.

  “In Orion’s last two books, I never read the last poems. For me, the books are perfectly incomplete.”

  “Perfectly incomplete,” I murmur.

  “Whole, but not whole.”

  And maybe because it’s not fiction, I sort of understand. “Okay,” I tell him. “I still think you’re a freak. But I get you.”

  His eyes crinkle at the edges. “I know.”

  A hush falls over the crowd, then, and a man in a masquerade mask decorated with constellations takes the stage. The mask covers his eyes and nose, and a swirl of stars trails over its surface down to his exposed mouth.

  “Thank you so much for coming out tonight for the release of The Feeling of Falling, a book of poems. I’ll read a selection for you, and then we’ll do a quick Q and A before the signing.”

  He opens his copy to a dog-eared page and begins to read in a lovely, rumbling voice that feels like sunlight on a field of flowing grass and water trickling over rocks. And as Orion reads, I listen and try to find Locke in the words.

  But they’re not just poems. They’re love poems.

  “I think about you

  more than I should

  and less than I want.”

  More than once as Orion reads, I look over at Locke and see the sheen of tears in his eyes. More than once when I look over, he looks back and seems to say something important to me without saying a word.

  After Orion finishes reading, Locke and I wait in line to get copies of the book signed. We don’t talk, but there’s something calm and quiet between us, contented like we’ve just shared a religious experience. In a way, I guess we have.

  When we reach the front of the line, Locke hands over a copy of The Feeling of Falling, along with what looks to be one of Orion’s older collections. Orion graciously signs them, then poses with us so the person behind us in line can snap a photo on Locke’s phone.

  We stumble out onto the sidewalk well past two in the morning, and I’ve got that drunken, giddy feeling of staying up way past my bedtime having a moment with someone new. But the man next to me’s not new. He’s Locke and he’s been here all along, and my heart sings finally.

  But then there’s a moment when we pause on the sidewalk and look at each other, and there’s a question in Locke’s eyes and the space between us holds so much promise that I have to bury my hands in my coat before I reach for him.

  “Which way are you parked?” Locke asks.

  “Just a little north of here. By the park.”

  “I’m south. Let me walk you.”

  “It’s okay. My car’s less just down the street.”

  “Greer.” He gives me a look that leaves no room for argument, and his protective tone makes me swoon. “Lead the way.”

  I listen, for once, and spin on my heel toward the corner of Tenth and Pine. As we walk, a street musician on the corner croons a song to the late-night crowd, and we arrive at my car all too quickly.

  I clutch my signed book to my chest and look up at Locke. Even with my four-inch heels, he’s so much taller than me. But he looks down at me so our eyes are locked, and a smile dances on his lips.

  I think of Thanksgiving and his hand on my knee.

  I think of every smile he’s lobbed my way in the year I’ve known him.

  I think of how very much I’d like him to kiss me.

  And the
n Locke leans forward and I hold my breath and my heart pops like fireworks. His lips brush my cheek and linger on my skin, and the smell of him does something stupid to me—my nipples tightening under my sweater, a damp ache between my legs.

  “Thank you for coming,” he whispers, his mouth so close to my ear that the hair near my face blows gently.

  God, doesn’t he know what he’s doing to me? It’s too much because it’s not nearly enough. Not when I want so much more.

  I back away and mutter something silly like, See you tomorrow, which makes us both laugh because it’s already tomorrow. We’ve spent a night together listening to words about love, staying up to greet the morning with bleary eyes and full hearts.

  Don’t Greer. Don’t fall.

  I climb into my car and start the engine, and when I pull away, Locke's standing on the sidewalk with one hand raised, watching me make my way safely down the street. As he fades in my rearview mirror, I realize how wrong I was to come to this event. Not because I didn’t like it, but because I liked it so much that my heart can’t handle it.

  I’ve been half in lust with Lachlan Mills for as long as I can remember. Tonight might have pushed me over the edge into full-blown, unrequited love.

  12

  Locke

  Greer slumps into the chair across from me the day after the book release, her forehead creased and her pretty lips pouted in a frown. “Is it permanent?” she groans.

  She drops her forehead onto the edge of her desk in a manner much too similar to the way she did on the first day with Damien, and my senses scream into high alert.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask warily, my shoulders tense. Did he do something to her?

  “You get to a certain age, you start to think every ailment’s permanent.”

  My relief is palpable, five pounds lifted off my chest in an instant. “You’re not injured, Greer,” I say with a smile. “You’re tired.”

  “Bushed.” She gives me a faint grin. “Don’t you wish people used that word more? It just sounds so…old school but saucy.”

  I lower my voice, not wanting to draw too much attention to our situation. “How much sleep did you manage last night?”

  “Three hours?” she guesses. “I’ve gotta tell you, Locke, I’m usually a solid seven-to-eight-hour sleeper. You have me at a disadvantage.”

  “Which is why I brought you coffee. Not the crap from the vending machines, either.” I gesture at the carrying tray of Starbucks drinks, the signature red holiday cups bearing our names, side by side. Locke, misspelled—Lock—next to Greer, in black, cursive Sharpie. “It might be a little cold, but—”

  “No, it’s perfect. I love you.” Her eyes go wide, and she snaps her mouth shut. “I mean, shit. Thank you. I mean thanks. I love it.”

  Her pink cheeks betray her embarrassment, but I can’t not revel in the feeling for a minute.

  I love you.

  What would it be like to have her say those words for real?

  I hand over Greer’s cup, and she takes a long, gorgeous swallow, letting out a moan so sensual my dick perks up.

  “Morning!” Eden’s singsong voice ruins the moment, and I wrench my gaze away from Greer’s mouth.

  “Morning,” I toss back.

  Eden brushes a hand over the length of her hair, patting it in place. “We still on for our peer editing review meeting at ten?”

  I summon my computer’s calendar and check the details. “Yep.”

  “Good.” Eden pauses as if noticing Greer’s face for the first time, then offers her a sympathetic frown. “You are looking…less than lively.”

  “Ha ha,” Greer says dryly. “I see what you did there.”

  “What happened?” Eden drops her hands to her hips like a mama bear.

  Greer points an accusatory finger in my direction. “Locke kept me up past my bedtime.”

  Eden’s eyebrows lift, but she’s smart enough not to say anything about it here. Still, that conversation from a year ago flashes back through my mind.

  Don’t do it.

  Sorry, Eden. I’m pretty sure that rule has expired.

  Damien appears at the edge of my vision, a shadow decked in crisp cotton and false authority. “Everything okay?” A territorial note hardens the edge of his voice. He must have heard what Greer said about me keeping her up past her bedtime.

  Good. Let the fucker think she spent the night in my bed. Let him think I gave her the pleasure she never got from him. God knows I want to. Last night with her made me realize just how much I’d like to be the one invading her dreams, taking up space inside her mind. Inside her life.

  But Greer now just goes a little pink. “I’m fine.” She cuts a quick glance at me, and then it’s like she can’t help the spark of mischief that dances in her eyes. She smooths her smile into something less revealing and turns to Damien. “Tired from some late-night work.”

  Our secret is ours, and it feels like something to hold between my hands. A flutter of wings between cupped palms.

  Damien’s eyebrows pull together. “Good.” He jerks his chin in a curt, dismissive nod and then strides away.

  Eden gives me a lingering gaze, so I say, “See you at ten,” and turn back to my computer, hoping she’ll take the hint.

  She gives me a two-finger salute. “You got it, boss.”

  Boss? Does she know about the San Francisco job?

  My whole body tenses and my heart rate spikes. I look to see if Greer’s noticed, but she’s just making moony eyes at her coffee, and Eden’s smile lacks any trace of suspicion or subterfuge. She’s just being affectionate. That’s all this is.

  Still, I spend the next few minutes recovering from my heart attack, realizing just how screwed I am. This job and all its possibilities loom before me, and it’s a decision so big I could use a sounding board. Normally I’d talk to Greer because she’s got a fantastic way of putting life into perspective and reminding me that it’s an adventure that I can’t possibly mess up. But this time is different. This time, the person I want to talk to most is the last person on Earth I should tell. This time I’ve got the feeling that with one wrong step, everything important to me could crumble apart.

  Greer looks up from her computer as Eden and I spill out of our morning meeting and walk back to our desks.

  “Is it seriously only eleven?” she asks as I slide into my chair. “It feels like it should be nine at night.”

  “I’m with you. I wish employer-sponsored nap time were a thing.”

  Greer sets her palms on the table and widens her eyes. “It’s not?” she deadpans.

  “Afraid not.” I scan her pale skin, the hair she wears in a braid over one shoulder instead of styled in its normal glossy waves. I give her five minutes before she falls asleep on the spot. “I hate to say it, but you look like you’re going to faceplant on your keyboard.”

  Greer winces. “I’m not the staying out late expert. You tell me, is it normal to be so dizzy?”

  The smile falls off my face as I look at her in concern. “You feel dizzy right now?”

  Even her sigh is tired. “Am I talking to the Locke on the left or the Locke on the right?”

  Shit.

  “Greer, if you’re dizzy, you need to rest. Go home.”

  She plumbs her lips in a frown. “I drove today to save time. I’ll just wait it out here until I can make it back.”

  Like hell you will.

  Every protective cell in my body screams in dissent, and I push back from my chair. “Come on. Pack up.” I slide my laptop into my bag, and Greer blinks up at me.

  “Where are you going?” she asks.

  “We are going someplace you can rest.”

  She shakes her head at me. “You’re not going to let me out of this, are you?”

  I shrug on my coat. “Nope. Come on.” I lean forward and lower my voice, then add a pointed, “Babe.”

  Her mouth drops open, and color floods her cheeks. Because I’ve embarrassed her or because she wa
nts me? I can’t quite tell.

  “Don’t mess with me, Lachlan,” she warns, her voice a low, throaty whisper. “I’m too tired to know the difference.”

  Never, I want to say. I’d never lie to you about how I feel. But isn’t that what I’ve been doing all along by keeping my feelings to myself?

  I stuff the words down my throat, and finally Greer complies and starts to gather her bag. We try to slip out silently, but Damien glances back at us like he’s taking note, and a dark scowl crawls across his face.

  As far as I’m concerned, that fucker can go screw himself. He might have let Greer go, but I’m not going to. I offer her my elbow and she takes it, and together we head toward the door.

  13

  Greer

  Best friends who are secretly in love with their best friends shouldn’t say yes to sleepovers with them. Screw the Golden Rule. This is the dominant guidance we should all live by. Yet as we cross through the intersection of 45th and Wallingford Ave—to a sleepover—my toe catches on the edge of the bumpy sidewalk and I go down hard on the cement.

  Unwittingly, tears spring to my eyes.

  Lachlan rushes to my side with his eyebrows drawn together and concern brewing in his dark gaze. “Are you hurt?”

  I blink quickly to clear my vision. “Just my pride.” Then I stretch out one leg and wince as my jeans chafe against raw skin. “Maybe a skinned knee, too.”

  “Come on.” He hooks a capable hand around my arm and gently guides me to my feet. “My place is closer.”

  Did I hear him right? I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Locke gestures for us to turn down Wallingford Ave instead of continuing on the straight path that would lead me home. “You need to get off your feet. You can crash at my apartment.”

  My mouth practically waters at the thought. I’ve spent a year imagining Locke in places I shouldn’t—on the sidewalk next to me after my morning coffee run, in my apartment watching movies, in my bed. But for all my wildest imaginings, I’ve never been able to fill in the blanks of what happens when Locke walks through the doors of his home. It’s a hole I want to fill. After all, Locke out in the world could be anyone, but there’s no truer self than the self you are at home. I want to know him. I want a claim on him that no one else gets to have.