Page 72 of Fake Married to the Grumps

Later that evening, after wrapping up the day's shoot, I decide to thank Marissa in my own way.

I find her at the craft services table, engrossed in conversation with a fellow crew member.

"Hey, Marissa," I greet, slipping an arm around her shoulder casually.

She looks up, a smile spreading across her face. "Hey, Bryce. How was the rest of your day?"

"Better, thanks to you."

"Glad I could help."

I lean in conspiratorially. "You know, I owe you for that. How about dinner? My treat."

Marissa’s eyes go wide, but she doesn’t respond. I don’t say anything either, and the longer the silence goes on, the more I start to doubt myself.

I wipe my hands on my jeans under the table. My heart pounds in my chest as I await her reply.

This was a mistake.

Chapter 5

Marissa

When Bryce, with that charming yet mischievous smile, asks me to join him for dinner, my heart hiccups in my chest. I hesitate, memories of that long-ago crush are making me wary.

After Bryce left that night without a word, I knew then that he didn't want me. I was hurt, of course, but I mean, you can't exactly force someone to like you back if they don't feel the same way.

"Come on, Marissa. It's just dinner. Two old friends catching up," he says when I just gape at him like a weirdo, his tone light and inviting.

Old friends. Right.

Bryce stands casually, unaware of the turmoil his invitation has stirred up inside me.

I search his face for any sign he remembers how he brushed me off back then, but his eyes hold nothing but friendly warmth.

Finally, I relent with a tentative nod. "Sure, why not?"

His grin widens. I hope he can't hear the slight quiver in my voice.

Act normal. You've got this. Just two old friends catching up.

"Great! It's a date, then."

The word "date" sends a ripple of unease through me. But I shove the discomfort aside, convincing myself that it's just a friendly dinner, nothing more.

Bryce doesn't like me that way.

Picking up my bag, I follow Bryce as he leads the way to his black Aston Martin. The way his muscles flex beneath his shirt has me wondering if he's secretly been moonlighting as a superhero.

I mean, those biceps could definitely save the day, or at least carry in the groceries without a second trip.

But then again, who needs a superhero when you've got a guy with a smile that could melt ice cream on a winter day? He holdsthe door for me like a gentleman, and I slip in with a sheepish smile on my face.

If he keeps this up, I might just have to start practicing my damsel in distress routine.

We arrive at the restaurant in no time. The dim lighting and soft music give the restaurant an intimate vibe that makes me fidget nervously with the hem of my shirt. I avoid his gaze, not wanting my bashfulness to show through my eyes.

The waitress greets us with a warm smile. "Table for two?"

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