Page 1 of The Summer We Played Pretend

Chapter One

Chloe

It all started when my boyfriend dumped me.

Or more accurately, when he dumped me out of the blue, and then Jackson Whitaker found me crying.

Now I’m stuck in this whole fake boyfriend mess with someone who isn’t just the hottest guy I’ve ever known—he’s also two years older than me, my brother’s best friend, and, according to town gossip, the type of guy who doesn’t follow the rules and leaves a trail of broken hearts behind him.

Jackson gives me his trademark slanted smirk as I step out of the restaurant and catch his eye. He stays where he is, leaning against his truck. The dark ink of a tattoo snakes down one forearm, disappearing into his rolled-up sleeve. I can’t help but notice the truck is spotlessly clean, gleaming in the lunchtime sun—a sharp contrast to the dust and grime I usually see on it. Did he actually clean and polish it just to pick me up?

Let’s be honest, though. This whole situation is weird. Especially the butterflies in my stomach when I meet his piercing gaze and respond to his nonchalant wave with a little awkward one of my own.

Aware of my ex in the window of the restaurant where we both work, I swallow hard, trying not to think about how hot Jackson looks with his jacket shrugged open and a fitted T-shirt underneath, showing just enough of the tattoo to keep me staring.

Calling him a boy feels wrong. The man is pure trouble, with a cocky grin that says he knows it. His arms stretch the seams of his T-shirt as his smile broadens, and I remember how he used to roll up to my house on his beat-up motorcycle, all swagger and charm, before my mom insisted he park it in the driveway instead of the street.

I wait for the next car to pass and dash across the road, holding onto the strap of my bag while brushing my hair from my face as it sticks annoyingly to my lip gloss. I feel ridiculous. I shouldn’t have put on extra makeup before coming outside, but it felt right somehow. I’d definitely put on more makeup if my new bad-boy boyfriend was picking me up, right?

It’s all just part of the act...right?

Just like the way Jackson takes my bag from me and then takes my hand.

All part of the act, I remind myself.

And the butterflies in my stomach.

His hand is warm and comforting, his grip steady and slightly rough. It’s stupid, but his touch somehow makes me feel safer—like no one would dare mess with me when he’s around.

“That’s my girl,” Jackson says, his voice low and smooth, leading me around the side of the car.

For a split second, he shifts, as though he’s going to lean in to kiss me. Panic flares through me, and my eyes widen. We’ve held hands twice already, but we haven’t kissed, and I’m pretty sure we never made any agreement over kissing.

At least I don’t think so. This whole situation is a big blur, really.

He moves past me, opens the truck door, and gestures for me to get in, only letting go of my hand at the last minute. Once I’m in, he comes around the other side and climbs in, filling the space with his presence. The smell of leather, soap, and engine oil clings to him, along with something sharper—cologne, maybe.

It’s rare he doesn’t smell like this. He’s been working with cars since he left school, helping his dad at their repair shop after what was apparently a "disastrous attempt at community college," as my mom put it. There were tons of times when he showed up at our house and got scolded by her for tracking in grease stains. Of course, she never really meant it. Jackson’s practically family—has been for years, even after my brother left for college.

That’s what makes all this so much weirder.

Jackson hands me my bag, and I clutch it in my lap. He smirks, shifting gears as the truck rumbles to life, and I wish I had even half as much confidence and self-assurance as he does. I should be smiling. I’m with my new boyfriend—the boy every girl in Elmwood Glen has a crush on, bad reputation and all. I shouldn’t be sitting here all tense, too scared to move in case I look like a right idiot.

But I never planned this fake boyfriend stuff. Not really. Jackson started it, and I just found myself playing along.

Sort of.

“How was your shift?”

“Awkward,” I admit.

I can’t deny the idea of having Jackson pick me up helped me get through the breakfast shift. Knowing I was going to see Brendan as I was leaving made me feel sick all morning. I don’t even know how I didn’t spill every pot of coffee and drop every plate.

“You did great, Chlo,” Jackson assures me, his voice soft but sure, as he pulls out onto the road.

I give a tight smile. “I felt like an idiot. A stupid, pathetic idiot.”

“He’s the idiot.”

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