Lainey
“We have to date.”
I look up from the curtains I’m sewing for the nursery—a billowy cream-colored fabric that will have the effect of puffy clouds floating around the windows.
Dean looks young when he says these words—mischievous and playful—the kind of look a boy would wear if he was trying to convince a girl to cut class and make out behind the gym. Totally irresistible.
“Or . . . you know fake-date. Act like a couple. Pretend.”
“Fake-date? Sounds like the plot of a rom-com.”
Dean fingers the end of the curtain. “Maybe. But the fact remains we have to go out—show our faces around town, together.”
“It’s not like we’re hiding.”
“Yeah, but we need to act like a couple. Hit up the diner, the bagel shop, the movies—we have to hold hands, walk with my arm around you . . . kiss.”
My traitorous eyes go right to his mouth—that gorgeous, sinful mouth.
“Kiss?” The syllable comes out high pitched and strangled.
Dean grins. “Yeah. I mean, if you’re okay with that.”
It’s terrifying just how okay I am. In fact, I’d be good with practicing right now.
Instead, I clear my throat. “Why do we have to do these things?”
Dean explains the question he got in class from one of his students and how he answered.
“So, you want to like—protect my honor? How old-fashioned.” I laugh.
“Yeah, your’s and Jay’s honor. I have a reputation around town and mother insults are still a thing. ‘Your mom is dating Coach Walker’ is a lot weaker than ‘Coach Walker fucked your mother and knocked her up before she even knew his last name.’ That could sting.”
He makes a valid point.
Or maybe I’m just deluding myself. Letting myself be swayed by the argument that will lead to holding Dean’s hand, going out with him, kissing him wherever, whenever—because that’s what I really want to do. Because the more I get to know him, the more I want him, and all the reasons I told myself we shouldn’t get physically involved feel thinner by the hour.
Dean moves in closer and slides my hair back from my shoulder, toying with the feather earring hanging from my earlobe. And his voice shifts gears, losing some of that playfulness, dropping low and tantalizing.
“Of course, anytime you want to stop pretending we’re doing the deed and make it a reality, you just need to say the word, beautiful.”
My pulse quickens as his tone washes over me, his tempting words—talk about lethal. Dean Walker’s voice should be labeled a weapon of mass seduction.
But I don’t want my life choices blowing back on Jason—this would preemptively solve that. It would also satisfy my craving, give me a taste of what being in a relationship with Dean would feel like. It’s basically all the plus and none of the downside.
None of the risk.
Because it’s not real.
“Okay. I’m on board. What should we do first?”
~ ~ ~
For the next two weeks, Operation Fake Couple goes into effect. We go to the movies, grocery shopping, we look at cribs at the local furniture store, and adorable baby-sized football jerseys at the Lakeside spirit-wear pop-up store on the school lawn. We eat dinner at Dinky’s Diner, and on Sunday morning Jason, Dean and I grab warm bagels at The Bagel Shop, just like a real couple—a real family.
Dean’s a popular guy—everyone around town knows him—and he introduces me to everybody. As his girlfriend.
This is Lainey, my girlfriend.
Good to see you, have you met my girlfriend, Lainey? We’re expecting a baby in the spring.
Stop looking at my girlfriend’s ass, Schwartz—she’s taken.
Even though I know it’s not real, it gives me the warm and fuzzies inside every single time. It’s been a while since I’ve been anything close to anyone’s girlfriend. Since it felt like I belonged to someone. And Dean’s a fantastic fake boyfriend. He’s attentive and sweet when we’re out together, holding my hand and pulling out my chair.
The one thing he doesn’t do, besides a few quick pecks on the cheek, is kiss me. It’s the only thing Dean doesn’t deliver on, and I find myself waiting breathlessly for the moment he’ll press his lips against mine. Waiting and wanting it more than I can put into words.
The second week in December is the annual St. Bart’s Christmas Bazaar—which apparently is a very big deal around Lakeside. Everyone who’s anyone, and even those who aren’t, show up. It’s an indoor/outdoor event—held on Main Street and in the St. Bart’s school cafeteria—with tables of homemade crafts and cakes and goodies for sale.
There’s a Santa for lap-sitting and picture-taking in the corner, who Dean whispers is actually the high school guidance counselor, Jerry Dorfman. I haven’t met him yet, but Dean finds Jerry decked out in his Santa gear completely hilarious. He takes a picture on his phone for the yearbook.
There are garland and lights and real evergreen Christmas trees decorated in every corner of the cafeteria. There’s a little stage on one side of the room where Dean says the school’s choir will sing Christmas carols at the end of the night. The streetlamps outside are hung with wreaths and bows, and everywhere I look, people are laughing and chatting.
I knew Lakeside was a beautiful town . . . but this is different. It’s picturesque, stunning—something straight out of Norman Rockwell—as if neighborly warmth and holiday cheer suffuse the very air we’re breathing. Jason disappears into a group of high schoolers soon after we get there, and Dean holds my hand, leading me along the tables inside.
“You could set up a table here next year,” Dean suggests. “Your stuff would sell like crazy.”
“I did a whole video series last year about making homemade Christmas gifts. They were good gifts too, nothing chintzy. It might be fun to do something like that—a craft tutorial.”
We run into Garrett and Callie Daniels, with little Will bouncing between them. Callie and I compare bellies—she’s got a slight lead on me, but I’m catching up. Dean’s told me a lot about Garrett—how he’s like a brother to him, how growing up his house was a second home.
So it feels nice when Garrett smiles and says, “Good to finally meet you, Lainey. I’ve heard great things about you.”
I meet more people from around town. Most seem curious, in a friendly way, about the woman who’s apparently locked down Lakeside’s legendary Coach Walker.
Most come right up and introduce themselves.
There’s Lara Simmons, who dated Dean their senior year and still has their prom picture framed in her living room.
There’s Debbie Christianson who went out with Dean junior year, before catching him having sex with her best friend, in her bed. She can laugh about it now.
There’s Peggy Gallow who went out with Dean freshmen year of college and, according to her—she’s still not over him.
There’s Jenny Dunkin—mother of three—who swore Dean broke her heart into a million pieces.
And there’s old Mrs. Jenkins.
She didn’t date Dean. But she rubs my belly and wishes us well, before shaking her head with a sweet smile. “Alicia must be so happy. I never thought I’d see the day when her wild grandson finally settled down.”
And I’m sensing a theme here.
I take Dean’s hand, and pull him into a corner, away from the shifting, bustling crowd. “Question.”
He runs his finger along the brim of my gray knit newsboy cap, looking down on me with a tempting, teasing expression.
“Answer.”
“Have you had sex with all these women?”
He hesitates, squinting. “All is such a strong word.”
I laugh. And I’m not jealous, but more . . . curious. And maybe a little intimidated. But I want to know him—the way the people in this town seem to know him. The details and the stories, all the pieces that, added together, have turned him i
nto the man he is today.
“What’s a more accurate word?”
Dean looks up, scanning the room—and I think he may be counting. “Half? Two-thirds tops.”
“Two-thirds?!” I choke.
He dips his head, and it’s the first time I’ve seen him anywhere close to sheepish. “I got around a lot when I was younger.”
“I would say so. At least your ex-girlfriends still seem to like you. That’s a good sign.”
And Dean sobers right up. “Not all of them.” His voice gentles, going delicate. “You might hear things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“That I was a player. A dog. A heartbreaker. That I lied, cheated on every girlfriend I had.”
My stomach dips with a sinking sort of ache—that sense that pokes and prods when you worry something bad is about to happen.
“And if I hear those things, would they be true?”
Dean kicks at the ground with the tip of his toe. “Anything you hear about me is probably right on the money.”
“Oh.” I breathe out a slow breath. “I see.”
“But, Lainey,” Dean cups my cheek with one hand, resting the other on my rounded stomach, like he’s taking an oath. “I’m not like that anymore, okay? I don’t do that anymore. Not to anyone—but especially not to you.”
A little voice hisses in my head that that’s exactly what a player who’s still a player would say. But I ignore it.
Because maybe it’s the hormones or my own stupid, hopeful heart . . . but I believe him. The sinking, worried feeling is swept far away with the brush of his lips against my forehead and the feel of his arms pulling me in close. His wool coat is warm and smells like him—a manly, delicious, sandalwood scent that I remember in my dreams.
I tilt my head back, and lift up on my toes—and press my mouth against his. And god, the feel of his mouth—of him—it’s electric and wondrous, every bit as amazing as I remember. My breasts grow heavy and aching for the touch of his hands, and the muscles low in my stomach pull and tighten.
For a moment, Dean doesn’t react, like I’ve surprised him by making the first move. But then he recovers—and I’m treated to the head-spinning sensation of his wet tongue tracing my lips, before plunging inside my mouth, stroking hungrily. He tugs my hat off, cradling my head, fingers tightening, pulling me closer, and a deep groan passes from his throat to mine. Dean spins us around and presses me into the wall, opening his mouth wider to suck at my lips and scrape them with his teeth. And I feel lightheaded and languid and desperate for more.