Page 4 of Acting Merry
two
Cole
I’m late.When I told my client, Mr. Walker, that I needed to leave, he took that as his cue to ask ten questions about grout.
One arm at a time and with one hand on the steering wheel, I shrug out of the button-up shirt I’m wearing over my usual white Tee. It’s got dust and grout all over it, which is par for the course. I do a quick armpit check as I pull onto my street.
Myoldstreet.
Yesterday after work, I drove all the way here before realizing I’d been on auto-pilot. I’m still getting used to the fact that I don’t live here anymore.
When my agent reached out about my mail being here, I almost asked her to have it forwarded so I could avoid coming, but there’s a part of me that wants to see the house now that someone else lives here. Maybe it’ll helpme put the house behind me. It’s time to start fresh. That’s the whole reason I sold it.
Tossing the button-up shirt to the back seat, I pull into the driveway as a text comes through from my electrician. I type a quick response as I get out. We’re right on schedule for the Walker house, which is a small miracle in the world I inhabit.
I’ve taken all of ten steps on the sidewalk when I look up from my phone and stop short.
Ten feet ahead, two women stand under the porch light. The one holding the door open is a short, pretty brunette, while the woman facing her has long, black hair, her arms crossed in front of her.
I know the second woman. What I don’t know is why in the world Bree Phillips is on my porch. My old porch.
I’m tempted to spin around, run back to my car, and high-tail it out of here. I would, but I’ve been made. Both women are staring at me.
“I thought you said you didn’t do relationships,” Bree says in anet tu, Brutetone.
I open my mouth, but her comment requires more processing time. The implication is that I’mina relationship.
“Bree was just telling me how much better than me she thinks you can do,” the woman at the door says with a smile that comes with a neat little blink that saysisn’t that fascinating?
It’s a beautiful smile, so wide I can see almost everyone of her top teeth. Not teeth that bite—the kind that invite me to play along if I dare.
Oh, I dare. I double dog dare.
Bree has apparently made the assumption that this beautiful stranger is my girlfriend—an assumption I’m not ready to put to bed if the stranger is willing to let it ride, which it seems she is.
I’d love for Bree to stop texting me. I’d love for her to no longer heart every one of my workandpersonal posts on social media. A fake girlfriend—stranger or not—may be just what the doctor ordered.
I skip up to the porch and past Bree, then wrap my arm around…the nameless woman who’s become my girlfriend. I look down at her with a soft, adoring smile. “Noonecould do better than you, pumpkin.”
She meets my gaze with her own full of twinkling mischief that sends a little spark through me, like a lit fuse making its way through my veins on the way to my heart.
“You’re too good to me,” she says, leaning her head on my shoulder.
She smells like vanilla, which is welcome after a day of inhaling dust and drywall.
The warmth of the gesture takes me off guard, though. I go on a lot of dates. I kiss a lot of women. But snuggling up is not something I do.
Don’t get attachedis my mantra, and it’s a lot harder to follow the more I physically attach myself.
I know whyI’mwilling to engage in this little charade,but I can’t say I understand why she’s so ready to play along. I look for the answer in her face, but my research is interrupted by a little scoff from Bree.
“Oh”—the woman’s head comes off my shoulder—“Bree kindly brought back your sweatshirt.” She holds it out by the shoulders, then looks up at me, smiling. “Isn’t that sweet of her?”
“You left it at my place,” Bree says, all tone and zero subtlety—remember how you were at my place?
Oh, I remember. Unfortunately.
There’s also a hint of accusation in it—like she thinks it was a calculated move on my part.
