Page 10 of Winging It with You

I don’t know why, but I trust the sudden seriousness in his voice. Every instinct of mine is screaming that this is crazy, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes me feel like I can trust him.

Or he’s just exceptionally good at pretending.

“What do you say, Asher Bennett? Shall we?” Theo offers his hand and the same smile I was met with at the bar returns to his face.

This is it—the now-or-never moment that just might be a defining one for my sanity. Are we doing this? Pretending to be boyfriends after a fifteen-minute conversation and knowing absolutely nothing about each other?

Fuck it.

Seriously, fuck everything about it. After today, what more do I have to lose?

I take his big and firm and surprisingly soft hand in mine. His smile widens, and I think the sight of it rushes all my blood to my head.

Or maybe this is just the Theo Fernandez Effect.

We shake, and when he returns my hand, the warmth of his touch still crackling over my palm like a flame refusing to be extinguished, he leans back in his seat and we continue our ascent. He’s charming. Charming and direct and very obviously gorgeous and seemingly up for anything, at least far more than I am, which feels like a dangerous combination if you ask me.

He seems like a good time.

And I could use a good time after the day I’ve had.

Like him, this just might be the most spontaneous and out-of-character thing I’ve ever done. I’m terrified and my insides feel like they are melting from stress or unexpected excitement or maybe even a genuine fear that all this—my life and Theo and the fact that I am so far out of my comfort zone here it’s bordering on hysterical—is going to tragically implode around me with all of America watching.

4

Theo

Los Angeles International Airport—Baggage Claim

Los Angeles, California

The jig is up.

Asher and I spent the flight in a comfortably uncomfortable silence, exchanging the exact amount of pleasantries and common courtesies warranted when traveling with someone you’ve known for all of three hours. He’d been on edge since we took off, head constantly swiveling, quietly excusing himself to go to the bathroom at least half a dozen times, and fidgeting with his seat belt. Based on the way he kept stealing glances at me as we crossed the continental US, I get the feeling he’s sizing me up every chance he gets.

It’s obvious he’s spiraling.

Or at least hurting.

The guy is practically one big tightly wound ball of stress, and it only gets worse as we deplane after touching down at LAX. I watch his slim shoulders rise as we step onto theescalator, descending into the sea of eager passengers clambering to grab their belongings.

That’s when I see her.

She’s short with dark hair pulled back into a low bun. Dressed in all black with an annoyed expression plastered across her face, she stands holding a simple white sign that readsAsher Bennett and Clint Hanson. Even behind her tinted aviators, I can tell she’s quietly judging everyone heading in her direction.

Asher nudges me, his sharp elbow landing right in my gut as if I hadn’t already been scanning the room for every exit to be prepared when this all blows up in our faces.

Her head tilts in recognition and she lowers her sign. We’re still about twenty or so feet away, but I can sense her looking between Asher and me.

We’re now ten feet away, and if we make it through this unscathed, I swear I’ll never eat another damn mozzarella stick in my life.

“Hi, um…that’s me. I’m Asher Bennett,” he says as we begin to close the space between us. I don’t have to know Asher that well to know he’s about as nervous as one can get. “And this is my boyfriend…”

She ignores him, stepping directly in front of me.

“Bullshit—who the hell are you?”

/////////////

---