Page 46 of That Time I Kissed My Brother’s Best Friend

“There’s another note,” I say, nodding down at the coffee table.

Kasey scoops up the tinier remote that works with the camera. “Play me.”

“Well.” I splay my hands. “You heard the note.” She presses play, and suddenly the television screen fills with a video.

Of Nicolas cage.

Sitting in an armchair.

Leaning forward.

Grinning into the camera.

“Merry Christmas, Kasey,” Nic Cage says, in his slow, one-of-a-kind drawl. “It’s me.” He smacks his knees with his hands. “Good old St. Nicolas.”

“WHAT?” Kasey squawks—not unlike her mother in volume—just way cuter in every other way. Kasey pauses the video and turns to gape at me. “How on earth did you do this?”

I take the remote from her. “Just keep watching.” I press play again. She cuts her gaze back to the screen, her mouth still hanging open.

“This video is only a reality thanks to your beau …” Nicolas Cage winks. “Beau. Pun intended.”

Under her breath, lips barely parted, Kasey says, “Ilovepuns.”

“Because I know you love puns,” Nic continues.

Kasey reaches down and pinches herself. “Wait. Am I dreaming?”

“You’re not dreaming, Kasey,” Nic says straight into the camera. “In case you were wondering if you are. I thought you might be wondering.”

Kasey stands beside me, speechless, and I watch her, mesmerized by her face. Those wide eyes. Her pink cheeks. Her wild hair in a tangle. This woman thrills me to the core. And I want to thrill her back for the rest of our lives.

“Now, before we get too deep into this,” Nic Cage continues, “I’ve got a small confession to make. I amnotwho you think I am.”

Kasey bends her neck. “I don’t understand.”

“What’s your favorite Nicolas Cage movie?” he asks.

“National Treasure Two.”

“And your second favorite?”

“FaceOff.”

Nic leans back in his chair. “Iknewthat would be your answer.” All these questions and responses are perfectly timed thanks to more than an hour’s practice before making the final video. Kasey lets out a chuckle just as Nicolas Cage straightens in the chair. Then he reaches for his collar and starts to unbutton his crisp, white oxford shirt. Slowly. From the neck down. Eyes still glued to the screen.

Kasey starts to giggle and shake her head at the same time. “What is evenhappeningright now?”

“I have no idea,” I say, just as Nicolas Cage opens the top of his shirt. Scrawled across his bare torso isPROPERTY OF KEG DO NOT TOUCH!

“Bah!” Kasey gapes, snatching the remote back to freeze the screen. Then she sets the remote on the coffee table and moves toward the television, examining the message. “Is that … written in Sharpie?”

I nod, even though she’s facing away from me. “It appears to be.”

“Wow!” She peers even closer at the screen. “Nicolas Cage is totally ripped!” Then she turns and looks back at me over her shoulder, arching an eyebrow.

“What?” I ask, feigning innocence.

“I know that’s you, Beau.”

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