Page 27 of The Summer We Played Pretend

I pivot on my heel, my sneakers squeaking faintly against the tile floor, and head toward the drink station. The clinking of glassware replaces the pounding in my chest, and I dive into the mundane safety of lemon wedges and ice cubes.

"Table six wants a refill on their water, and table nine’s ready for their wine," one of the girls says.

"Got it.” I focus on the orders, anything other than Brendan floating about in my peripheral vision.

It helps, kind of.

At least until I remember all those late-night texts—the buzzing of my phone against my nightstand. The texts swung from flattery to anger, telling me I was never good enough for him, then reminding me of sweet moments we’d once shared. Whatever his intentions had been, they left me with anxiety and bags under my eyes.

But the messages had stopped suddenly. I don’t know why, but I was so grateful to have him out of my head for a while.

Until now.

"Hey, Chloe." Brendan's voice cuts through the bustle. I don't look up. My gut tightens.

"Busy night, huh?" he adds, leaning against the counter with a nonchalance that feels out of place amidst the evening rush.

"Always is on Fridays," I reply, keeping my tone light while I wipe down a freshly rinsed glass, trying not to show how much I wish he'd chosen another spot to take a break.

"Good to see you're holding up."

"Doing just fine, thanks."

I avoid his gaze, hoping my indifference will send him back to whatever corner he crawled out from. It’s hard to believe those blue eyes could unravel me with nothing more than a glance.

"Yeah? So I've heard. You and Jackson have been hanging out a lot lately, huh?" Brendan leans in closer.

"Jackson's the best," I reply easily. It’s the truth, after all.

"You guys grew close quickly, huh?" The way he says it, like he's picking apart my words, looking for the seams where lies might hide, makes my skin prickle with annoyance.

"Really close," I emphasize, meeting his gaze now. No backing down, no second-guessing. Just Chloe Davenport, standing her ground because nobody gets to question who I’m with. Not anymore. Not after everything that's happened.

"Interesting." He straightens up, that familiar cocky grin playing at the corners of his mouth, but there's a hint of something else there—disapproval, maybe, or disbelief.

"Isn't it?" I quip, turning my attention back to the drinks.

"Sounds serious," Brendan prods, coming around the bar and making a show of helping me with the drinks.

Serious? I almost laugh out loud. Jackson and I have been playing pretend for barely two weeks, and somehow, it feels like the most serious, important moment of my life. All I can think about is Jackson.

And it’s all fake.

"Chloe?" Brendan's voice pulls me back, and I realize I've been staring at the lemon wedge I’m pinching between my fingers for a little too long.

"Sorry, what?" I squeeze the lemon into a glass.

"Nothing, just never seen someone so focused on making a drink before." His tone is light, teasing, but I can sense the edge to it. He's suspicious.

Or something.

The tray of drinks is ready, and I lift it with practiced ease, determined to deliver them to tables filled with people who are definitely not Brendan. I try to walk away, but Brendan stands in my way.

"You know, Jackson’s nice and all, but you could aim higher than a mechanic," he says with a snicker that sets my teeth on edge.

"Excuse me?" I put down the tray and lock gazes with Brendan. His smirk falters as he meets my glare. I never was very good at standing up to him, even when he questioned my clothing choices or who I hung out with.

I really regret ever giving him that power, actually.

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