Page 16 of Love is an Open Book
Scott:Dad says you haven’t come by in a while.
Big talk for someone who lives halfway across the country, but there’s no point in arguing with my brother.
Gavin:Summer gets busy, but I’ll be there for the cookout.
Dad hosts a big end-of-summer party for the employees and their families. These days it also serves as a send-off for Scott’s family. He’s a stay-at-home dad and ever since his wife started working remotely, they’ve extended their summertime trips to a month or more so the boys can spend time with our parents—especially Dad, who rarely takes time off to visit them. Mom always comes to the party in August, too, even though she lives in Madison now. Mia has joined me in the past, but this year she’ll be too busy prepping for her trip to Los Angeles the following week for the season three premiere.
Scott:Let me know if you can make it out sooner. The boys are asking when they can see you.
That strikes a nerve. My nephews are awesome kids, and I fly out to Colorado to spend time with them at least once a year. But even though Dad’s cooled off lately on hinting that I’d be better off at the farm, he always seems to ramp things up when I go home for a visit, and I’m torn between wanting to see everyone and not wanting to deal with the guilt trip.
Riley nudges me. “Next round is starting.”
“Just a sec,” I say, tapping out a reply to my brother.
“You’re good.” Morris leans across me to snag a chip. “The category is nature, and Riley’s all over that.”
“Don’t pressure me, man,” she says, but I tune them out to finish the text.
Gavin:Why don’t you bring them to the game this weekend? I can grab extra tickets.
Scott:Way past their bedtime. They’d fall asleep by the third inning. What about an afternoon game in Milwaukee? Then we could have dinner at the farm.
Scott’s persistent, always has been, but something feels off. I shoot off a quick text to my dad asking how he’s doing, and he sends back a selfie of himself holding a platter of what I’m guessing is prime rib and a thumbs-up emoji. Nothing unusual there.
I’m about to put my phone in my pocket when I see the notification for another unread message. It’s from Mia.
Mia:Ready if you are. Tomorrow night?
I stare at the screen. We’re really doing this?
Morris grabs my shoulder and shakes it. “Dude, we won!” He shoves a T-shirt into my hands, tonight’s prize.
Riley pulls hers on over the wicking long-sleeve shirt we wear to work and climbs onto the barstool with a loud whoop, earning a round of applause from the other two teams of regulars. It’s our first win in a few months, and I’ve got to say, it does feel good. That’s the reason for the giddy feeling in my chest, not the fact that I’m going out on a date with my best friend tomorrow.
Six
Mia
“We can’t just go on a date,” I tell Gavin. He’s sitting on the other end of my sofa in jeans and a white oxford button-down, hair damp from the shower he must’ve taken after work, looking ready to play the part of fake boyfriend. I feel a small pang of regret that I’ve decided we should switch tactics.
The more I thought about the method-acting scenario, the more it seemed like a great work-around. A way to keep up my creative momentum and do something to get out of my comfort zone without risking our friendship. Straight-up fake dating—pretending to be in a relationship—could skew the boundaries of our friendship. But a spin on it might just work.
I pull a typed sheet out of the binder I’m clutching in sweaty palms, and I lay it on the coffee table. Eager to fine-tune the idea after I got home from writing at the coffee shop with Evie, I barely slept last night and spent all of today working on what might be the most outrageous plan ever. What I’m about to propose is beyond bonkers, but if there’s anyone I trust enough to try this with, it’s him. “At first I thought we might need a contract to lay the ground rules.”
He pauses in the act of cuffing his sleeves, tanned forearms on full display. I do my best not to be distracted by the shape of muscles I’ve seen a thousand times when he wields hammers or carries bags of topsoil, and which have never—well, seldom, I’m only human—inspired me to imagine how they’d feel tucked under my legs, holding me tight against him.
I remind myself it’s just Gavin. Good luck telling that to my nervous system, because it’s still recovering from how he showed up at my door smelling all shower fresh, holding a potted plant with bright green leaves and fragrant white blossoms—a gardenia, he informed me—and my heart lit up like midsummer fireflies.
His brilliant blue eyes lock with mine. “A contract.” The word rumbles out, sounding filthy and confirming I was absolutely right not to go that route.
“Just to make sure we were both on the same page,” I say, grimacing at the accidental pun.
“It’s a date, Mia,” he says. “Not a marriage pact.”
The perfect opening. “Funny you mention that,” I reply, and his sandy-brown brows shoot up. I rush to explain. “A marriage pact is a trope, and I thought maybe we could explore... Well, not that one,” I add quickly when his eyes widen. “I’m getting ahead of myself. First, you should look over the contract. It’s got nothing to do with a wedding, I promise.”
He grins, pushing his sleeves to his elbows and scooting toward the edge of the couch to read over the document. I maintain a death grip on the binder in my lap until he finishes the single page and looks up.
