Text Appeal

“Ha. Cute.” I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms over my bountiful breasts. A bra with padding would not have been wasted. His hotness is so in your face. It shouldn’t be allowed at this hour of the night. For shame. “I thought maybe you were here to get your messages.”

He frowns down at me from his lofty height. “Sorry about that.”

“You’re a very popular person.”

“I just wanted a quiet weekend. I had no idea they reused numbers right away.”

“Me neither.”

“I’ll have to ask my niece about it,” he says, scratching at the stubble on his chin. He’s wearing black boots, jeans, and a faded old gray t-shirt. Someone needs to start a GoFundMe for the poor thing. The breadth of his shoulders are testing the cotton material to its utmost. “She works at the phone store next to the grocery shop.”

The exact place from whence my new number came. Makes me wonder if she chose to mess with her uncle through me. “Is that so?”

“Yeah.” His smile is faint, but proud. “Just on weekends. She’s a high school junior.”

I nod. “Well…I don’t know about you, Connor, but I feel like we’re already couple goals. We’re the talk of the town.”

His frown returns in full force and he hesitates. Like maybe he’s run out of words or something. “Yeah. About that. My grandmother said you’d been in contact with…”

“Ava. We texted. I tried to tell her I didn’t know you, but she wouldn’t believe me. The woman has trust issues.” I step back from the door and try to smooth down my out-of-control hair with a hand. “Come inside. Let’s not wake the neighbors.”

He moves cautiously through my entryway like this might be some sort of single-girl trap. The idiot. But guys like him don’t go for girls like me. Which means I don’t have to worry about trying to impress or please. Thank goodness, since I’m no good at such things. My second-date ratio says it all. Any relationship skills I have are strictly fictional and for the page.

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll get my car in the morning.” I grab my cell off the kitchen counter. “Of course, I don’t know who any of these are from. But your texts from over the weekend are as follows. It kicked off with the whole Ava wanting to talk to you and not believing me thing.”

Nothing from him.

“Second: Any news on the mustang? Third: You were right the bronco is dead as a doornail. Fourth: Can you pick up some beer if you’re coming over to watch the game? And fifth was a selfie from Ava, along with her best wishes for the weekend. Sweet of her.”

More nothing from him.

“Sixth: Any idea about the number of people invited to this party? Will the back room be big enough or should we have it in the bar? Seventh: Are we still on for Seattle? We can talk price on the mustang. Eighth was a request for you to call. And, last but not least, number nine was an invitation to dinner for you and Ava.”

Another furrow is added to his forehead with each mention of her name. These messages do not make him happy.

“Do you want to check to see who they’re from?” I ask, offering him my phone.

“No,” is all he says. I wait in silence, and he finally adds, “I sent out my new number this morning. If it’s important they’ll contact me again.”

“Okay. Wait. I forgot,” I say. “Your mom also left a message. She was very excited about Ava coming home and asked what she should bake for the party.”

This time he goes so far as to flinch. Whatever went down between him and his ex is intense. Way beyond your usual relationship drama. Though having over a decade of dating history will do that.

“So, you work with horses?” I ask.

“No. Cars.”

“Cars?”

“Yes,” he says, his gaze bemused.

“Huh,” I say. “I didn’t even think of that, but it does make sense. Ford Mustangs and Broncos and the Dodge Colt, of course.”

An awkward silence follows. He stands there, taking up all the space. While I refuse to break and make polite conversation. I want to see what he does. After a moment, he looks around the room, clears his throat, and asks, “Have you blocked her?”

“You mean Ava?”

There’s the flinch again. “Yeah.”

“No. She actually helped me find Martha today.”

“Thank you for that. For picking her up.” He tries to smile, but it doesn’t work. It’s as if the parameters for happiness have not been met and thus the expression is just a shallow attempt at meeting social norms. The ladies said he tended to be quiet. But he doesn’t seem to have too much trouble talking to me. Not once he gets going, at least.

“No problem.” I shut my mouth again and prepare to wait him out. Which is when I remember, “Oh. Yumi called Sunday night as well. She seems nice.”

The man freezes.

“Breathe, Connor. I didn’t tell your grandma about your sex friend. You’re safe.”

“But you did tell her about your chats with my ex.” His mouth is in a flat, unfriendly line as he strangles his ballcap with those big hands. It seems he is experiencing equally big feelings.

“Firstly, I didn’t mean to tell Martha about it,” I say. “But those cookies Joyce’s daughter makes are strong.”

A grunt from him.

“Secondly, Connor, all I wanted was a new number, not an introduction to your life. It was your ex, not me, who spread this bullshit about us dating all over town. Something I most definitely could have lived without. Your grandma heard about it and wanted to know the truth. And I, ever so slightly under the influence, told her what happened as it pertained to me, which is my right. The end.”

He scowls down at me, and I scowl up at him and…shit. I blink first. His lips curl slightly at the edges in victory and he says, “Your eyes are still a little red.”

“Wonderful.” I collapse into the nearest chair. “Was there anything else you wanted?”

He wearily rubs his face with one hand. “What are you, a lawyer or a teacher or something?”

“No. I’m a writer.”

“What kind of writer?” he asks, daring to move deeper into the room. Then he sees the stack of books on my desk. “You write romance?”

The way I physically, emotionally, and spiritually brace myself for the shit that is sure to follow. “Yes.”

But he just nods. That’s it.

Huh. “Did you get your quiet weekend?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding vaguely surprised. “I did.”

“Good.”

He gives me a long look. No idea what he’s thinking. Then he sits his firm, denim-clad ass on the edge of the sofa. Like he might still make a run for it but has yet to decide. “I didn’t get a bunch of messages about her today either, which was great.”

“You mean about your ex?”

He nods. “They all think I’m with you.”

“You really can’t bring yourself to say her name?”

“I really don’t want to.”

“Fair enough,” I say. And then dare to say some more. “People around here sure have opinions about you two. Given you’re no longer together, the messages from your friends and family were a surprise. It seems to be taken for granted that whenever she comes back…”

Another grunt.

“Must be annoying.”

“That’s one word for it.” He sighs. “I did get some messages about you this morning. People wanting to meet you. But those don’t bother me in the same way.”

I give him some side eye. “Okay.”

Were he a character in a book, his backstory would be about a broken heart making him disdainful and distrustful. This would probably be a grumpy-sunshine story. Those are often quite popular. Me being the sunshine character would be a challenge. But it could work. Or I could just continue to spend my life negging myself. Options are important.

“Was there anything in particular that pushed you into changing your number?” I ask. “Besides her coming back to town?”

He says nothing for a long moment. Long enough that I think he’s not going to answer. “It’s pretty much all about that.”

I nod.

“Six people asked if I was excited she was coming home last Friday.”

“Six doesn’t seem so bad for a whole day…”

“It wasn’t the whole day. I stopped at the bakery to buy a bumbleberry pie,” he clarifies. “Wasn’t in the store for more than five minutes.”

My brows arch high. “Six people asked about her in the space of a five-minute pastry purchase?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not great.”

“No. Grandma said you’re new to the area,” he says out of nowhere. “That you grew up in the city and moved here from out of state.”

“That’s right.”

“Small towns can be hard. People have often known each other forever. They’re not always open to strangers.”

“Okay.”

“I’m just saying, it can be difficult.”

“Where are you going with this, Connor?”

He’s staring at me again, but not in an appreciative manner. More of an assessing one, like I am a bug beneath a microscope. Something that bites and is possibly poisonous. “Just thinking about something Grandma said…”

“What did she say?”

“People already think we’re together. What if we just let them keep thinking that?”

Surprised laughter bursts out of me. “What? Why would we do that?”

“I think there’d be benefits for both of us.”

“Please explain,” I say. “I understand that your ex returning, and everyone being so enthused, is annoying. But isn’t lying to everyone in town a little extreme?”

“No. For reasons I don’t fully understand, they fucking love the idea of me and her being together. But they need to know that we’re through, so they can get off my back and we can all move on. Seems like the best way to do that is for me to be with someone new.”

“Mm.”

“What do you think?”

“Have you tried telling people how you feel? Asked them to cut this shipping crap out?”

“Yes.” His brows draw tight together. “But we’ve been breaking up and getting back together since we were sixteen. Most of them don’t believe me. They don’t want to believe me.”

“Seeing someone new could work. You’re right. But that someone will not be me. I do, however, have every faith in your ability to find the perfect person to hang off your arm. Flutter your eyelashes at them. Lord knows they’re long enough.”

“But everyone already thinks I am dating you. The hard work is done. It just makes sense to keep up the ruse.”

“Not to me, it doesn’t.”

“I could take you out,” he offers. “Introduce you to people.”

“And that would help with these hostile small town social circles you mentioned?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you really that popular?”

He nonchalantly lifts a thick, muscular shoulder. It’s the assured mannerism of a former prom king and hometown hero. A man who has always belonged and never even thought to question it. Must be nice. “I know you said you don’t like that this happened, but the damage is already done. Our names are linked in their minds now. Even if we tell them the truth, some people will still think something is going on. They enjoy the drama.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“Hear me out.” His expression is super sincere, his gaze intense. Like if he could coerce me with the power of his mind he would. One of his ancestors was a snake oil salesman for sure. “We could make it work for us. Being known around town as my girlfriend does have its advantages.”

“Or they could continue seeing me as the man-thieving ho who ruined everything,” I say. Connor opens his mouth to speak, but I beat him to it. “There were dueling tip jars with my and your ex’s names on them in the coffee shop downstairs this morning. My jar had a nickel. One whole shitty nickel. Some of the locals might be willing to welcome me as your new girlfriend. But not most of them.”

“You didn’t have me publicly backing you before. Once we’re seen together things will change. This will end up working out well for you too.”

I raise a skeptical brow. “How so?”

“I’ll show you around town, introduce you to folks. Fast track you into knowing everything there is to know about Port Stewart. I’ll warn you about the bullshit you should avoid and get you in with the locals. And that’s on top of helping you shake off this nonsense with my ex. Once I vouch for you, they’ll be lining up to fill your tip jar.”

“Oh, really? They love you that much, huh?”

“I think, at heart, they want me to be happy,” he says. “We show them that you do that, and they’ll put out the welcome mat. Which is what you want, right?”

I don’t answer due to thinking deep thoughts. As tempting as I find fake dating as a trope, I don’t know about trying it in real life. And with Connor. Though I am curious.

“It would also be good research for your writing,” he says. “How many people in your field can say they’ve actually fake dated someone?”

“Hmm.”

“What are you thinking?”

“I need more information.” I cross my legs and get comfortable. “Who would know the truth?”

“Just you and me.”

“You wouldn’t tell anyone? No friends or family?”

“No. Absolutely not.” He shakes his head. “What about you? Can you keep it on the down low?”

“Yes.”

He narrows his gaze. “What if Grandma comes at you with cookies again?”

“That was different. I can keep my mouth shut when it matters. Even while baked on baked goods.”

He doesn’t seem convinced, but he’s polite enough to say no more on the subject.

“How long do you envision us fake dating for?”

“I don’t know.” He sits back and rests an elbow on top of the couch. Such arm porn. Rodin would have sculpted him for sure. “A month maybe?”

“What exactly would it involve?”

He contemplates this for a whole second. “I’ll take you out to dinner once a week. Say a local restaurant or bar. Somewhere public so we’ll be seen, and you get to meet people. That should do it.”

“Is that really your idea of showing me around town?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

“What?”

“And you’re telling me that when you’re interested in a woman and dating her exclusively, you only see her once a week?”

“Summer’s a busy time for me.” Out comes the shit-eating grin. Though it doesn’t stick for long.

“You really haven’t thought this through at all, have you?”

“Riley…”

My name in his deep voice heaped with charm hits me straight between the hips. Which is annoying. “You want to convince the town that you’ve moved on so they stop shipping you with your ex? That’s your goal here?”

“Correct.” He raises a finger. “I think it can be mutually beneficial.”

“Yes, you’ve made a semi-convincing case for that. But if we’re really going to do this, then you’re going to need to pretend to be as into me as you were with her.”

His smile dims way down. “I don’t know about that.”

“It’s up to you. But, as you pointed out, you were born and raised here. These people know you. They know how you behave when you’re serious about someone. Also—there’s no way I am risking anyone finding out you’re cheating on our supposed relationship. Not happening. The local mythos of you and your ex will take some work to overcome. Do you really think having dinner with me once a week while seeing someone on the side will do it?”

He starts strangling his ballcap some more. “No,” he says with a frown. “Grandma said you’re just here for the summer?”

“My lease is for three months. Then we’ll see.”

He nods and smothers a yawn. “Shit. Sorry. Long day.”

“How about we both give the situation a little more thought and talk later?” I start walking toward the front door, and he follows. “Oh. I do have one stipulation in regard to our possible agreement.”

He turns and frowns back at me from the hallway. “What?”

“We tell people we met tonight due to the phone number nonsense, and it was love at first sight.”

“It was what?”

“You heard me.”

“Love at first sight,” he says with much disdain. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. I won’t have Grandma Martha and her squad thinking I lied about not knowing you. It’s not happening. I refuse to cede the moral high ground to your ex.”

The expression on his face asks what the fuck in several languages. “But you’re willing to lie from now on?”

“That’s different.”

“Right.” He blinks tiredly and heads for the stairs. “Love at first sight. Like anyone is going to believe that.”

“Not with that attitude they won’t. Good night, Connor.”

His parting grunt echoes up the stairs. And people say romance is dead.

Ava: I keep thinking about how you asked me what’s so great about Connor.

Ava: I know him on a cellular level. There’re no hidden nasties waiting around the corner.

Me: I can see how that would appeal. People are rarely who they say they are.

Ava: This is my point.

Me: But safety is still a shit excuse. Do you love him and want the same things as him?

Thanks to work, I don’t get to the grocery store until late Tuesday. The words aren’t flowing, which is annoying as fuck. Guess I am temporarily blocked due to the upheaval of the move or something. So many recent upsets and changes in my life. But there were plenty of marketing and admin type jobs to be done. Most of which I had been putting off for pretty much forever.

People think being a writer is easy. And it is if you want to be broke. The truth is romance readers are smart. They know what they want. Add this to the fact that the market is flooded, and you have a challenging career. It’s not just about knowing how to craft a book these days. Or coming up with great story ideas. You’re also running a business, with all that entails. So getting out and having a change of scenery at the end of the workday is very welcome.

The grocery store is bright, clean, and orderly. Though new places can be a lot. Just getting used to where things are and making sense of the selections and such. With my mind overwhelmed, it takes me a while to notice the weirdness. A young white man watching me in fruit and vegetables. A lady with a teenager in tow staring at me in cold goods. A person in the bakery area doing a double take as I help myself to both cookies and brownies. However, it is the outright judginess of the older couple in the alcohol aisle that really does it. Like I am not a woman with needs!

While I was prepared to attract a certain degree of attention as a stranger in a small town, this is excessive. What are the chances it’s due to the damn hometown sweethearts?

Even the dude at the checkout looks askance at my selections before saying, “Have a nice night, Riley. Tell Connor I said hi.”

I smile and mutter thanks and move right along. The sky is covered in clouds when I walk outside. Getting my groceries delivered will be the way to go in the future. I just wanted to have a look around the store to check out the local food and drink choices.

Luckily the elevator in my new apartment building is now working. A relief, since cardio sucks.

“Riley,” yells a voice from behind. It’s followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. “Wait up.”

I turn to find Connor hot on my heels. “Hi.”

“Can I help?”

“I’ve got it. Thanks.”

He stands beside the cart while I open the back of my Jeep and shove stuff aside to make room. The parking lot is far from empty despite it being after nine. Someone calls out to Connor, and he raises a hand in greeting. A couple walks past, and he gives them a nod. He really does seem to know everyone.

“You can go shop,” I say. “I really am fine.”

Tonight he wears another pair of jeans and a tee, but Converse replace the sturdy black boots. His longish golden hair is still a little damp, as if he just showered. And when he steps closer, I catch a hint of soap and cologne. Something warm with hints of salt and wood. He’s still ridiculously good-looking. Though his looks weren’t likely to disappear overnight. It’s the heavy line of his jaw and curious blue eyes that get me. I doubt he misses a thing. Adding the tall, lean, muscular body to all of that is just overkill. But he is still out of my league, and therefore neither my type nor my problem.

Unless I agree to fake dating. Which isn’t out of the question. The idea has been sitting in the back of my head all day—thoughts of him intruding at odd moments. He is pure hero material, no wonder he lives in my brain rent-free.

“I don’t need anything from the store,” he says, glancing over his shoulder.

“If you don’t need anything, why are you here?”

“Ana Rosa from the bank texted Cynthia the middle school teacher, who as I understand it is in a group chat for the art co-op with Margarida, a local potter who is friends with my sister-in-law Nicole.”

“And she called you?”

“No,” he says. “She got my brother Stuart to pass on the message. Which he did, after complaining for a solid eight minutes about the Mariners.”

I just blink.

“Seems that Ana Rosa saw you were stocking up on groceries and thought I should help.”

“Because they all still think you’re my boyfriend.”

“Yeah. Why don’t we talk while I perform the manly duty of lifting shit?” He pauses to nod to a couple walking past carrying a small child, who is loudly naming everything they see. Bike. Shop. Doggie. And so on.

A car cruises slowly past us and the driver’s eyes are not on the road. Nope. They’re on us.

Connor turns back to me, frowns and leans closer. “Let me just…” He reaches out and oh so carefully tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. It’s a smooth move. “There you go.”

I ignore the shiver that slides down my spine at his touch. My ears are weirdly sensitive tonight is all.

“Your hair is so soft,” he says, vaguely surprised.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You tucking my hair behind my ear,” I accuse him in a whisper hiss. “I haven’t agreed to your fake dating plan yet, Connor.”

He oh so casually looks over his shoulder again. Then he winces and attempts a smile and says, “No. You misunderstand me.”

“Oh, do I?”

“Yes. There was a, ah, bug in your hair. I was just getting it out.”

“Really? What kind?”

“It was a ladybug. Which are supposed to be lucky right? So that’s nice.”

“You are so full of shit.”

He frowns. “You wound me.”

“Connor…”

“Fine.” He sighs. “Pastor Mike is unpacking his groceries in the next aisle. The man talks like you wouldn’t believe. I couldn’t miss the opportunity.”

There is indeed a man with a head of white hair and neat beard lurking beside a sedan while giving us side eye. Along with three people in their late teens or early twenties hanging out beside a hatchback. One sips from a Big Gulp while the other two watch us not so surreptitiously. And the couple with the toddler have paused at the store doors to see what we’re doing. The small child takes this opportunity to shout, “Butt. Butt, butt, butt!”

“Potty jokes are really never not funny,” I say, but my amusement doesn’t last long. “All of this attention makes me itch. The level of interest in you is wild. How do you put up with it?”

He scratches at his stubble. “Me buying some bread and milk wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. But us standing here together when my ex is about to hit town…”

“How did your other girlfriends handle this? Have you had other girlfriends?”

“Say yes to my plan and I’ll tell you everything.” His attention turns to the cart. “I’m here now. Might as well let me load this for you.”

“Go for it.”

He grabs a bag in each hand and gets busy. “Is this all you eat? Frozen meals, breakfast cereal, cheese, and ice cream?”

“Yes. But it’s mostly spite that sustains me.”

“You’ve never met any fresh fruit or vegetables?” he asks with much judgment.

“None that I liked.” I toss back my hair. “Is this you trying to convince me to be your fake girlfriend? Because I got to tell you, the judgmental approach isn’t resonating with me.”

He narrows his gaze on me. “I thought we agreed that we’d both benefit.”

“Eh. Seems like you want it a whole lot more than I do,” I say. “There’s a faint air of desperation to you tonight. Has something happened?”

He frowns. Then he frowns some more.

“Connor, are you okay?”

He sighs and finally says, “I overheard someone at work saying she got delayed, but that her dad is picking her up from the airport Thursday.”

I nod.

“An old friend called this morning; they’re looking to offload their father’s 1969 Dodge Charger that’s been sitting out in the weather for a while. It runs, I mean, the engine is mostly sound. But the exterior needs a lot of work. They’re a popular car and the profit will be worth it.” He stares off at nothing for a moment. “I keep thinking, what if I fly down to Louisville and limp it back here myself? Take my time and do a road trip, you know?”

I nod.

“Which makes no sense because work is busy as fuck and there are things happening this weekend that I want to be here for. Plus that leaves you to deal with Ava solo because I ran for it, which is a dick move. I’ve never run from anything in my life. Apart from Jason York in middle school. That kid was an asshole.” The last of my groceries are loaded into the Jeep and he shuts the back door. His lips rest in a straight and serious line. “I thought about what you said. You were right about me needing to step up my game to make it believable. Dinner once a week won’t work.”

I nod again.

His high, handsome forehead is filled with furrows, the same as last time we talked. But now his thick shoulders are bowed, too. Staggering beneath the weight of small-town expectations. He’s still prom-king, hometown-hero gorgeous. But the ego is missing tonight. There’s a vulnerability to him that’s sort of surprising. And this could all end here. He could tell the gathered townsfolk it was a misunderstanding. His ex jumped to the wrong conclusion, etcetera. That he barely knows me and definitely hasn’t dated me. My name could be cleared. There would doubtless still be some rumormongering, but such is life. People are going to be people wherever you go. That much is without a doubt.

However, unlike him, there’s a good chance I could put this behind me and get back to building my beautiful life by the sea. Do my work and maybe make a few friends and see where this all takes me. Relearn how to socialize and so on. Make an actual commitment to communicate regularly with people and put energy into spending time with kindred spirits.

It could happen. I could put my foot down and insist and make it happen.

But Connor…for some reason, I care. The thought of him being miserable is messing with my head. Though he sure is pretty when he pouts. And he’s right, the fake dating plan could work.

“She messaged me again today,” I say. “Sent me a selfie of her at the Trevi Fountain. Then a shot of a dish of pasta I would die to eat. It was the most perfect-looking carbonara, with just the right amount of parmesan and cracked pepper. The way it made my mouth water. She really is such a bitch.”

His eyebrows rise a little.

“I mean that affectionately. Kind of.”

“She travels a lot for work. It’s one of the things she loves about it.”

I sigh. “Answer me two questions honestly.”

“Okay.”

“One. Are you definitely, positively finished with her? There’s absolutely no chance you’re going to change your mind and go back to her, leaving me looking like an idiot?”

“We’re not getting back together.”

“Two. Can you promise me that no one will ever know about our fake dating pact, and we will separate in a month or so in a polite and civilized fashion?”

“Yes.”

I close my eyelids tight for a moment and take a deep breath. “This is probably a huge mistake. But fine, I’ll help you.”