Page 28 of Ice Cold Chemistry
“What’s wrong with Banks?”
“Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s just very…” I gesture at all of him. “You.”
“I am me.”
“Forget it. Banks is fine.” I wave a hand. “Maybe I’ll come up with something better later—a term of endearment. Something cute.”
He looks vaguely horrified. “Nothing cute.”
“We’ll see.”
He almost smiles again. That’s twice in one conversation.
“We should exchange numbers,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Seems like step one for fake dating.”
He pulls out his phone—an older model, slightly battered—and we swap numbers. I save him as “Fake Boyfriend” with a little ice hockey emoji, then think better of it and change it to just “Banks.”
“How do we spread the word?” I ask. “Do we make an announcement? Post something on social media? Send a company-wide memo?”
“No.”
“Helpful.”
“I’ll handle it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’ll handle it.” He pockets his phone. “The guys will know by tomorrow.”
“How?”
“Trust me.”
I don’t entirely, but I’m in this now, so I might as well commit.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m trusting you. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I won’t.” He says it simply, like it’s a fact. Like the idea of letting me down hasn’t even occurred to him.
I don’t know why, but I believe him.
“I should go,” he says, glancing toward the door. “Early practice tomorrow.”
“Right. Yeah. Me too.” I gesture vaguely at the mats. “I should finish… sanitizing.”
He nods and takes a step toward the door, then stops. “Winnie.”
“Yeah?”
He turns back, and for a second, his expression is almost soft. Almost human.
“Thanks,” he says. “For saying yes.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone.
I stand there in the empty yoga studio, sanitizer in hand, trying to process what just happened.
I have a fake boyfriend.
