Page 91 of Maybe We Can Fake It

He gives me a look that seems almost sad. “Just, you know. If you were with someone you loved or whatever, like for a special occasion.”

“Being on a date with me isn’t a special enough occasion for you?” I tease, reaching for his hand across the table.

He exhales sharply, and I go to pull away, worried I did something wrong. But then he flips his hand and holds on tightly to mine. “It’s enough. This is great. Even if it’s not exactly real.”

Ouch.

That shouldn’t hurt, because technically it’s true, I guess. This is all a part of keeping up the fake relationship ruse for Elise and Grant. Yet it was starting to feel like maybe... I don’t know. Like maybe it was turning into something more.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say,It could be real, but I don’t. Because what if I’m wrong?

Brenden made himself clear when he said “friends with benefits.” And if I tell him I’ve been starting to see this as more, will he think I took advantage of the situation—ofhim—somehow?

Our waiter appears at the table, filling our water glasses and saving me from my budding internal crisis. “Hello, gentlemen. My name is James, and I’ll be happy to serve you tonight. I’ve been told to make sure you order one of our finest bottles of wine, so let me know if you’d like any help with the selection.”

I give Brenden an imploring look, letting him take the lead here. I’m not sure if it was Grant who insisted we get an expensive bottle, or the restaurant’s management when they heard there was a credit card with no limit on file.

“You don’t like wine,” he says to me. Quietly, as if he doesn’t want to offend the waiter. Or maybe he doesn’t want to embarrass me. “You can order a beer, and I’ll just get a glass of something.”

I might not like wine, but fuck, I like him. So I say, “I’ll share a bottle with you. I have no clue what’s good though.”

He looks surprised for a second, then he smiles and turns to the waiter. “We’ll take a bottle of red please. Whatever you choose.”

The waiter grins, probably already anticipating his fat tip, which I can’t fault him for. “Excellent! And here are your menus.” He slides the large, laminated sheets at the edge of the table closer to us. “Take your time perusing, and then let me know if you have any questions. I’ll be right back with that wine.”

I pick up the menu, appreciating that it’s not one of those giant books with a million options. But when I catch some of the prices, I blanch. This dinner could cost as much as a lease payment on the diner.

“Wow,” Brenden says, reading his menu too. “Leave it to Elise and Grant to find the most expensive restaurant in this whole area.”

“Uh, yeah. Are we sure...”

“What?” he asks.

“I guess I’m not too eager to spend so much of someone else’s money,” I explain.

He frowns at the menu, then looks back up at me. “It’s fine. I hate taking money from them, and it’s hard for me to accept that they would want to do something nice for me, but they wouldn’t have done this for us if they didn’t want to. So just for tonight, I’m going to swallow my pride along with a juicy filet mignon.”

I chuckle before returning my attention to the menu. They’re his family, so it’s his call. And man, I could destroy a porterhouse right now.

When the waiter comes back to uncork the wine and pour our first glasses, we let him know we’re ready to order. After he leaves and it’s just us again, with no menus for distraction, we fall into a stretch of silence.

Talking to Brenden has always been easy. But this is new for us.A date.Hell, I can’t even remember the last person I’ve been on a date with. Although he obviously doesn’t consider it a real date, so there shouldn’t be any pressure.

My body doesn’t get that memo though. I feel stiff, and I’m sure I look out of place here, even though I wore a navy blue button-down instead of my usual flannel. I’m worried I’m going to do something wrong and look stupid.

Something kicks my leg lightly under the table, and I jolt before locking eyes with Brenden. This lighting makes hisappear an even brighter, brilliant blue. And he’s smiling at me. He’s always smiling at me, isn’t he?

And what have I done to deserve that?

“You’re thinking too hard over there,” he says. “Pretend we’re at the diner and yell at me to eat a vegetable or something.”

Just like that, I’m back with him. The imposing details of the restaurant fade away into the background as the familiarity of our friendship settles in.

“You’re going to eat the vegetables that come with your steak,” I tell him, making sure to sound stern.

He shoots me a troublemaking look and says, “We’ll see.” Then effortlessly changing the subject, he asks, “So how’s your dad doing? His hip must be almost healed by now.”

“Yeah, he’s doing better. I don’t want him to come home until his doctor has fully cleared him to go back to work though. Because knowing him, if he’s told he can do some stuff but to take it easy, he’ll push too hard and set himself back. He’s stubborn like that.”

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