Chapter One

Nora

 

Text conversation with THIRD CHOICE

Him: Yeah, sorry. Not coming. Got way too drnk last night. Not feeling it 2day. 

Him: But if you wanna hook up somet ime, you got my number, babe

Me: Not anymore I don’t. [Middle finger emoji.]

​

I kick the bathroom door in frustration and then swear a blue streak, because damn, that hurt. Probably worse because I’m wearing uncomfortable kitten heels.

​

Obviously I knew the man whose name I hadn’t bothered writing down last night wasn’t going to be an ideal solution to my problem, but he’d seemed like an acceptable placeholder. 

​

My friend Hannah and I went out last night on a mission to find me a last-minute fake boyfriend for my mother’s wedding, which is being held here.

​

Not here in my private office bathroom, but in my ginger beer brewery—The Ginger Station. A magical place, which looks even more magical today, with the exposed wooden beams covered in fairy lights and miniature roses. We set up the special events room for the ceremony, and the reception is being held in our expansive tasting room.

 

Everything’s ready. 

​

Everything except for my date.

​

Unfortunately, Hannah and I got a little too drunk last night. Much too drunk.

​

To be honest, I couldn’t pick THIRD CHOICE out of a lineup. All I know is that choices one and two listened to my looney tunes story and had the sense to bail. So I’d settled for Unlucky Number Three—until about five seconds ago, when he very considerately canceled on me an hour before my mother’s wedding.

​

Even now, Mom’s having her hair done, along with my aunt and cousin. I opted out, since I was hoping to sort out this whole date mess.

​

I’m not worried about how Mom will react to my datelessness. My mom’s not one of those mothers who’d shove her daughter down the aisle toward any old loser. She’s raised me to be independent and encouraged me to only share my life with a man who can take care of himself.

​

But I’m not being histrionic when I say my entire career hinges on me pretending to be in a serious relationship.

 

Yes, I know how that sounds.

 

It’s also one hundred percent true. 

 

My friend and business partner, José, and I started The Ginger Station together. We’re a ginger beer brewery that distributes to hundreds of stores and bars around Western North Carolina. It was my dream, and because he believed in it too, it’s now our reality.

 

Unfortunately, he is engaged to a psychopath.

 

Pansy can’t stomach the fact that José and I briefly dated. Nothing on heaven and earth can convince her that I no longer have the slightest intellectual curiosity about his dick. She knows I’ve seen it, and that’s enough to make her hate me forever.

 

A little jealousy, I could understand, but this woman takes it to new heights. We’re talking cyberstalking and anonymous threatening texts.

 

But José is convinced she’s an innocent, delicate flower of a woman who’d never do such things. He thinks the texts, which stopped coming months and months ago, were from someone else.

 

My friend is deluded.

 

Still, I want to get along so my brewery can continue on. I’d do anything for that.

 

Which brings me to the real reason I need a date. Ever since Pansy came into his life, José has been pulling away from me and the business, leaving me to wonder about its future. So a couple of months ago I poured him a drink after closing and flat-out asked him if he was on his way out. 

 

He sighed and gripped the edge of the bar, which we’d sanded together years before. He didn’t need to tell me it was a sign of nerves. I’d known him for over a decade. 

 

“I don’t know, Nora,” he finally said. “It’s hard for Pansy, knowing we spend so much time together.”

 

“What would make her feel better?” I asked tightly, my heart pounding. I was anxious but also furious that my future was going to be decided by a super-hot blonde who loves Bon Jovi so much she has “livin’ on a prayer” tattooed on her inner wrist. Her bad taste in tats wasn’t the problem, though—it was that she’d pussy-whipped my best friend into believing she was the only thing he should want.

 

She had no friends to speak of, and her whole family lives “out west.” He sees a free spirit; I see a walking red flag.

 

“Are you honestly asking me that?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Or is this another bid to pick on her?” 

 

“Honestly asking.” 

 

He rubbed a divot in the wooden bar, his dark hair tumbling over his face. “She’d feel better if you had a boyfriend.”

 

“So tell her I do. It’s super serious. His name is Marco, and I want fifteen of his babies. We’d need to get a fleet of minivans, but it would be worth it to have the whole block looking like him.”

 

He scowled at me. “A lot of people would be jealous in her situation, Nora. She’s not being unreasonable.” 

He scooted his stool back an inch, signaling the conversation was over. I placed a hand on his arm to keep him from leaving, but he looked down at it as if I’d grabbed his junk.

​

I pulled back, wounded. “We can’t even touch each other anymore?”

​

A sigh seeped from him. “Look, I’m sorry.” 

​

“We tried being together for two months. Two months out of ten-plus years of friendship. This is ridiculous, José.” 

​

I knew he agreed with me. It was there in the lines of his face, which I knew almost as well as my own, but he said, “I can’t tell her the way she feels is ridiculous.”

​

“So tell her I have a boyfriend,” I insisted. “I’ll find one, so it won’t be a lie.”

​

He laughed, looking more like himself for a second, but it slipped into a grimace. “I don’t want to force you into dating someone just so—”

​

“I’ll do it, and hey, maybe he’ll be my soulmate, and I’ll have Pansy to thank. Just don’t ask me to name my kid after her.”

​

“Nora.” 

​

“Tell her,” I said, my voice dangerously close to pleading. “We can’t lose this place. We can’t.”

​

I can’t lose this place. I don’t have the money to buy him out. And it would be pointless for him to buy me out given I’m the one who makes the ginger beer we sell. He never caught the ginger bug himself—he hitched himself to my dream because he believed it could be successful, and it has been.

​

We’ve both poured so much of ourselves into this place. For either of us to step back now would be unthinkable. I mean, what would he even do? 

​

Pardon the pun, but he’d be livin’ on a prayer.

​

“All right,” he said after a moment. “I don’t want to lose this either.”

​

And I knew he wasn’t just referring to the brewery. He was talking about our friendship and working relationship.

Of course, Pansy swung by the brewery after hearing about my new “boyfriend,” because she had dozens of questions.

​

She wanted to know his name. 

Marco.

​

She was desperately curious about his job.

Computers, but his position was classified.

​

Most of all, she wanted to know when they could both meet him. 

​

In a reckless game of kick the can, I told her it would happen at my mother’s wedding. 

​

Back then, the wedding had been months in the future, and I’d figured there was plenty of time for me to start dating a man who’d pretend his name was Marco.

​

And, no shit, I’d actually met a guy whose name was Marco. I’d half convinced myself I should marry him just to make my life easier, but he’d broken up with me two weeks ago, saying he was worried I liked the idea of him better than the reality.

​

No one could say that wasn’t fair.

​

I’d shifted to Plan B—find a shameless liar who doesn’t see any harm in playing a part—but my shameless liar has a hangover, and now I’m out of luck.

​

Unless Pansy is an even bigger dipshit than I thought, she’s going to realize Marco is as fake as an orange tan. 

I didn’t get good results the first time, but I kick the bathroom door again. 

​

Yup. Still doesn’t feel good. And this time someone yelps on the other side.

​

“Is someone out there?” I ask incredulously.

​

“Uh…yeah,” says a familiar voice. “And we need to talk.” 

​

Fuck my life, I know exactly who’s behind that door.

​

Cormac Peebles, my soon-to-be stepbrother.

​

Cormac and I went to school together, starting with elementary school, although we didn’t have classes together until high school. It was not the beginning of a beautiful friendship. I mean, sure, I had a lightning-quick crush on him during my brief emo phase in my junior year of high school, spurred on by his don’t give a fuck attitude toward everyone, along with his superintelligence, curly hair, and smoky gray eyes. But the first time I tried to strike up a conversation with him, he informed me that there was a grain of pepper stuck between my teeth. Specifically, my lateral incisor and cuspid. 

​

I attempted to talk to Cormac a second time by commenting on his Half-Life T-shirt, because I was still obsessed with that game, and I’d thought I was the only one. He replied, “Oh, actually a lot of people are. That’s why they made a sequel.” 

​

The third time we interacted was at a high school party. I was shocked to see him there. He wasn’t the party kind of guy. I didn’t think the lame gatherings had much inherent value, but I figured anything was better than being stuck at home. 

​

I was flabbergasted when he consented to play seven minutes in heaven. Everyone else was too, and Justin Greene, the most popular asshole in our class, thought it was hilarious to back him into going first. 

​

His bottle spin stopped on me. 

​

Cormac refused to follow through. Refused. Supposedly, he hadn’t understood the rules of the game. 

​

Total BS. Either he didn’t like me or he figured I always had pepper in my teeth. 

​

Never let it be said I can’t take a hint.

​

It was at that exact moment I stopped trying, and started disliking him and his superior-ass attitude in earnest.

Honestly. Who doesn’t honor the rules of seven minutes in heaven?

​

A monster, that’s who.

​

My poor impression of him was renewed by his complete overreaction after I knocked over his science fair robot in the second half of senior year. It was a complete accident, but he flipped out on me, suddenly not at all at a loss for words. He’s still talking about it, as if I were the only stumbling block between him and a brilliant science career. 

 

“Nora?” he prompts from the other side of the door.

​

I glance at the window over the toilet, but unfortunately it’s not human-sized, and as the maid of honor for this wedding, I can hardly avoid the best man forever. Sighing, I open the door, and am a little caught off-guard by the sight of him.

​

He wasn’t at the rehearsal party last night, something about an important meeting with people in a disagreeable time zone, yada yada yada. It’s actually been a month and a half since we last crossed paths at an Easter lunch, and he looks different. He’s been palling around with my friend Briar’s boyfriend, and they’ve been working out a lot. It shows in the snug fit of his suit jacket. His curly, light-brown hair is a bit overgrown, as usual, and his wire-frame glasses look like they’ve seen some shit. But his gray eyes are attention-getters, the same as always.

​

“What’s up, Cormac?” I ask.

​

He adjusts his glasses and looks away from me.

​

“Were you looking for me, or did you have a sudden, urgent need for a private restroom?”

​

I shouldn’t provoke him, but he’s always as rude to me as I am to him. It goes without saying that neither of us are pleased we’ll be stitched together permanently through our parents’ impending marriage. Most people have the pleasure of leaving their high school acquaintances permanently behind as soon as they leave those hallowed doors.

 

He gestures to my office door, which leads to the back hallway of The Ginger Station. “There are bathrooms out there.”

​

“Indeed. This one is attached to my office.”

​

“Which is why I figured you might be in here. I checked the other office first, but your mom and a few other women are in there, and they have really big hair. Anyway, I’m getting off track. I was hoping we could…” He pauses, rocking on his heels. “Air out our differences? You know, we’re going to have to spend plenty of time together.”

​

I rub my forehead, feeling my hangover reassert itself. “Is this really the time for us to have this discussion? Our parents are getting married in an hour.”

​

“Forty-five minutes,” he says, unironically. 

​

“Exactly.” My hand drops from my forehead. “Can’t we argue later?”

​

“I’d prefer it if we don’t argue at all. I might think my dad’s making a mistake, but—”

​

Fury blasts through me, and I poke a finger into his chest. “Do you seriously think your dad is too good for my mom?” I hiss. “Choose your next words very carefully.” 

​

He frowns and pushes my finger away. “No, of course not. Your mom’s not the problem. I like your mom well enough. I just don’t see any reason for them to make their relationship legally binding.”

​

“That makes a surprising amount of sense,” I concede. “But it’s a little too late for either of us to try to talk them out of it.” Since this conversation shows no signs of ending anytime soon, I walk over and shut the office door before striding back to him. He has edged away from the bathroom and is standing behind the visitor chairs pushed up to my desk.

​

He nods. “Yeah, I tried to have a conversation with him about it last night, and he didn’t take it well.”

 

“What the fuck? You tried to talk him into leaving her at the altar?”

 

Cormac laughs. He actually laughs! 

 

I take a step toward the door, done with his nonsense, but he captures my forearm, his grip light but firm. “Nora, I’m sorry. I just…” More laughter. “Sometimes I laugh at inappropriate times.”

 

No shit, but I stop in my tracks. 

 

Like it or not, the man has a point. We will have to deal with each other for the next who-knows-how-long. I have enough difficult relationships to navigate in my life—ours doesn’t need to continue being one of them.

 

“I wasn’t telling Dad he should leave her,” he says earnestly. “I tried to convince him they don’t need to file paperwork for it to feel real. My mother worked him over in the divorce. He had to give her half of everything, even his dog.”

 

“How’d he give her half a dog?”

 

“They had a custody schedule.” His lips curl upward, nearly a smile but not quite. I’d give it a C-plus if I were a teacher like my mom is. “Color-coded. Shared holidays.”

​

“Holy shit. Did they have one for you too, or only the dog?”

​

His smile stretches wider. “It was generally agreed upon that while Daisy required a custody agreement, their twenty-one-year-old son could decide for himself. But it would have made things easier if they’d gone for it. Then I wouldn’t have to deal with the back-and-forth texts every Thanksgiving and Christmas.”

​

“Sounds like a passive-aggressive nightmare. I’m glad it’s not like that with my parents.” 

​

Because my father is a cheating hypocrite. As far as I’m concerned, he can fuck right off and spend the holidays by himself or with whatever age-inappropriate woman he’s “dating.” Odds are, she’ll be one of his former students at UNC Asheville. 

​

Sure, I used to understand my mother’s obsession with my father, when I was a teeny-tiny kid and he was launching a charm offensive. But I realized he was full of shit a long time before his chronic infidelity finally became impossible for my mother to explain away. 

​

Cormac makes a humming sound deep in his throat. “The great thing about passive aggression is that it can largely be ignored, especially if you’re not good at identifying it in the first place.”

​

I actually laugh, which comes as a surprise to both of us. Then we seem to simultaneously realize that he is still, for some ungodly reason, touching my arm. He drops his hand instantly, as if I’m the hot potato who lost him the game.

 

I purse my lips, remembering how horrified he had looked when that spinning bottle stopped on me.

​

“Sooo, should we arrange a custody schedule for our parents?” I ask. 

​

He laughs again, and I’m charitable enough to acknowledge that it’s a pleasant laugh. Deep and rich, the way laughter should be. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. If I have to watch them make out, I’d prefer not to do it alone.”

 

He has a point about this too. Our parents, both of whom are card-carrying members of AARP, act like they’re teenagers who just discovered mouths can do something other than talk and eat. It would be kind of sweet if it weren’t entirely too much. “What about Daisy the dog? Can’t she keep you company?” 

 

“Only her memory, and I can’t bring my dog to their house.”

 

“You have a different dog?” 

 

“Yeah. She’s on two different anxiety medications.” 

 

“Like father, like daughter.”

​

He lifts his chin, studying me. “Oh, you’re one of those people who acts like a dog is a child.”

 

I laugh at the open disdain in his voice. “I don’t even have a dog.”

 

The look on his face suggests that’s for the best—for the dog.

 

“I’d be a great pet owner,” I lie.

 

I spend so little time in my apartment that it took me a week to realize there was a leak under the kitchen sink, and another week to get it fixed.

 

“Okay.” He seems unconvinced.

 

I frown at him, suddenly desperate to prove I’d be an exceptional pet owner. The best in the world, a real maestro of pets that other people would want to consult and write books about.

 

Cormac has done this to me since high school.

 

He’s always the smartest person in the room, and when I’m around him, I instantly feel the need to prove myself. Especially since he seems so unimpressed by everything. That, in turn, pisses me off. It’s what they call a vicious cycle.

 

“Look…I really want us to get along,” he says. “I’m willing to let the thing with my robot go.”

 

I narrow my gaze at him. “I’ve told you at least twenty times the science fair thing was an accident.” 

 

“Do you think that means you aren’t at fault?” He adjusts his glasses again. “If you mowed someone down on the street because you were looking at your phone instead of paying attention, you don’t think you should face consequences for that?”

 

“I apologized,” I say tightly. “Do you want me to get on my knees and beg for forgiveness?”

 

His lips part, and a strange look fills his eyes. Almost as if—

 

No. He’s made it very clear he finds me unappealing, and the sentiment is mutual. In high school, he was a nerd in an ivory tower who couldn’t be bothered to be civil, and I’ve seen nothing to suggest he’s changed.

 

“Are you really going to get down on your—”

 

A strangled sound escapes him as I lower onto my knees on the wood flooring. It was the look in his eyes that did it—almost like he was daring me. Or maybe he just doubted someone like me would ever say sorry. So of course I have to apologize in the most dramatic way possible.

 

I gaze up at him, soaking in his surprise.

 

“Cormac Peebles,” I say, my voice filled with honey. “Will you please forgive me for making out with Justin Greene behind your science fair display? He was a tool, but he was very dreamy, and I couldn’t help myself. It was completely unplanned, and the classroom seemed like a great place to hide, but I regret that your robot paid the price.”

 

He sighs, shaking his head, but his eyes are hooked on me. I’ve officially captured his attention. He reaches down and offers me a hand. “Get up, Nora.”

​

I take it, grinning like an idiot, but my kitten heel twists to the side as he’s giving me a boost. I tumble into him, and for half a second I’m pressed against his chest. Shock ripples through me, chased by the realization that he’s surprisingly firm. 

 

The door creaks open, revealing Pansy in the doorway in a pink taffeta princess dress. She gasps so theatrically I can only conclude she’s practiced it multiple times. 

 

“What would Marco say?” she asks in an exhale.

​​

Chapter Two

Nora

​​

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. 

 

I swallow the words and give Pansy a tight smile as I push away from Cormac. “Pansy, can we have a private word?”

I have no clue which magical “private words” would iron this out, but I have a few seconds to figure it out.

 

Cormac shifts his weight between his feet as she enters the room in a cloud of floral vanilla. His nose wrinkles. “Oh, does that mean I should…you know.”

 

I smile sweetly at him. “You can leave, Cormac. We’ll see you out there. Try not to trip my mom on her way down the aisle.”

​

 

He gives me an inscrutable look. “I’ll be standing at the front. I’m the best man.” He takes a step toward the door but hesitates. There’s genuine concern on his face when he adds, “Are you okay, Nora?”

 

No. 

 

“Of course.”

​

He leaves the office, shutting the door behind him, and my gaze skates back to Pansy, who’s still staring at me. There’s a knowing glint in her tepid blue eyes.

​

“Marco’s fake,” she says after an excruciating twenty seconds of eye contact. “You made him up.” 

​

My heart starts racing. She’s going to force José to quit. She’ll back him into a corner, and he’ll leave, and everything in my life will go to shit…

​

The business will go bust, and I’ll probably never get to speak to him again. She’ll plant one of those tracking chips in his neck, and she’ll know if we’re within fifty feet of each other.

​

She angles her head to one side, studying my face. “You’re nervous.”

​

“I’m never nervous,” I bluster, feeling sweat bead at the back of my neck.

​

“You’ve been lying to everyone.”

 

“Oh?” 

​

“You made up Marco because you don’t want people to know you’re dating your brother.”

 

“Excuse me?” I blurt in genuine shock. “I don’t even have a brother.”

 

“Cormac,” she says with a knowing smile, gesturing toward the door.

​

Her words hit me like a physical blow. “You think I’m dating Cormac?”

​

She stuns me by stepping forward. For a second, I think she’s going to attack me, but then she wraps her arms around me. It’s like getting a hug from an android who has never hugged anyone before in her life. To be fair, I’m not much of a hugger, so I don’t have a lot of experience to compare it with, but it is awkward. “Your secret’s safe with me, Nora.”

​

I’m about to tell her off when it hits me…

​

If Pansy thinks I’m secretly dating my stepbrother, I won’t have to find a new boyfriend and parade him around the brewery. Because she’ll think I’m having secret dates with Cormac. No one will have to know the truth. He’ll be my fake boyfriend for an audience of one.

​

My internal Jiminy Cricket chirps to life, the annoying little bastard. 

​

Okay, fine. Cormac deserves to know. It obviously wouldn’t be cool for me to drag him into this mess without his permission, especially after our talk today, but I’ll figure out a way to make it worthwhile for him. There must be something he wants.

​

Heart racing, I edge back and give Pansy a brave smile. “Yeah, okay, but Cormac and I have to keep it quiet for obvious reasons.”

​

“Of course,” she says, her tone placating. “Does José know?”

​

“No, only you.”

​

This answer clearly pleases her. “I’ll have to tell him, of course. I couldn’t keep something this big from him.”

 

I bow my head, pretending to be penitent. “Yes, I’d never ask you to do that.”

​

She smiles at me, and it pleases me immensely that lipstick has rubbed off onto her right front tooth. “I’m so glad we had this talk. You don’t need to pretend with me anymore. We can talk about anything.”

​

I’m tempted to ask if that includes the creepy texts I’m ninety-nine percent sure she was sending me last year. 

They stopped right after I told José about them, go figure.

​

He called it a coincidence and insisted they had to be from my ex-boyfriend, Jonah, the bag of tools who’d dated me and three other women at the same time. But José was giving Jonah too much credit.

​

When men turn stalker, they show up outside your window late at night or steal your underpants. Women are more cunning.

​

“Me too,” I tell her. “I want to be friends.”

​

I feel awash with shame, because it comes out too easily. My dad’s a good liar too. He lied his way into staying in a marriage that lasted decades longer than it should have. 

​

My mother washed his clothes, cooked him meals, and bought him thoughtfully selected presents for every major holiday and birthday. He took everything she offered and gave her nothing but BS and gaslighting in return.

 

Then again, she probably should have known better. Not only were there several glaring signs that he was a disrespectful prick, but he was basically a professor of untruths. One of his most popular classes was the Psychology of Lying, no joke, and now that he’s been disgraced in academic circles for seducing students, he has a radio podcast about the same thing. I sometimes have the displeasure of hearing his voice when I’m channel surfing in my car. 

 

I don’t want to be like that asshole, but can we really escape the influence of the people we surround ourselves with? 

I’m not a liar. Usually. But sometimes I find myself exhibiting my dad’s other habits—like carrying on rhetorical conversations out loud or “cleaning” by shoving everything into the closet. So why not this too?

​

Pansy smiles, showing me that lipstick-stained tooth again. I nearly feel guilty enough to warn her about it when she says, “I’ll bet your parents would be really upset if they found out. It’s almost incest.”

​

“It’s not like he and I grew up together,” I say heatedly, as if I really am in love with Cormac and would defend our inappropriate relationship with my life.

​

“Oh, I get it.” She broadens her smile. “But I can understand why you wouldn’t want them to know. It would be embarrassing for everyone involved.” 

​

I tilt my head, focusing on that tooth, because it’s the only thing that’s keeping me from snapping. “Sure.”

 

“I’d never tell, of course. But…you know…friends show support for each other, that’s what I always say. Did José happen to mention that I’ve started my own interior design company? I’m calling it Pads by Pansy.” 

 

I’ll give my father this much—

If I hadn’t inherited Vernon Leigh’s ability to lie with a straight face, I’d be laughing my ass off right now. 

I take a deep breath. “Pads by Pansy. That’s an interesting name.”

​

“I like the alliteration.”

​

“Aren’t you worried people will think you’re talking about sanitary products?”

​

She lifts her chin, her blond curls bouncing on her shoulders. “No one uses pads anymore. They’re so last century.”

 

Tell that to all the women with pelvic floor issues.

​

“Well, that’s super cool, Pansy,” I say, “but I have to get out there to check on my mother. I’m her maid of honor.”

 

She reaches for my arm and digs her fingers in so I don’t go. “I thought maybe I could do some decorating for you. José told me you’d hired someone else, a friend, but we’re friends now, aren’t we?”

 

Ah, here it is.

 

She thinks she knows my deepest, darkest secret and wants to use it as a bargaining chip. I’d like nothing better than to tell her off. She’s an asshole, and so undeserving of José it physically pains me to be in the same room as them when they’re together. 

​

The thing is: I need her to believe she has the upper hand. 

​

I give her a slight nod. “Why don’t you send me your portfolio for—” I allow myself a microsecond pause “—Pads by Pansy. And we’ll go from there. But I really do have to check on my mom.”

​

Her smile purses to the side. “So she won’t guess you were making out with your stepbrother in a back room?” 

 

I pretend to laugh, but then it hits me—

​

Pansy didn’t know I was in here. Was she trying to sneak into my office, or did she hear us talking and decide to eavesdrop? Either way, there’s no way in hell I’m giving this woman a hall pass to sift through my papers or spit in my water bottle. I gesture at the door. “Let’s head out there together. They haven’t started serving the Ginger Ever After yet, but I’ll set you up with some.”

​

It’s a special ginger beer I made for my mother’s wedding—with a hint of raspberry, her favorite berry. My new brews are always inspired by something in my life, although admittedly this is the only new flavor I’ve felt inspired to make for months.

​

“I’m so glad we’re going to be friends,” Pansy says, finally heading for the door. “I really didn’t want to have to make José quit the brewery.”

​

I make it to the door first and squeeze the handle so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. “This place is important to him, Pansy.”

​

“So am I,” she says with that pink tooth.

​

So am I, my heart wants to echo.

​

I may not be in love with José Cruz, but he’ll never just be some guy to me. And I make a pledge to myself: no matter what happens, I can’t let him marry this horrible woman. I absolutely cannot. 

​

The door flies open, nearly knocking me in the face.

​

“Oh,” Hannah says, “sorry.” Then she sees Pansy and shoots me a quizzical look. Probably because she knows I hate Pansy with the fire of a thousand suns and would never invite her for a private sit-down in my office unless I intended violence.

​

“Why are you wearing a tux?” Pansy asks coldly, planting a hand on her hip as she eyes my friend’s pin-striped tux and pinned-up red curls. 

​

“I’m a groomswoman.” Hannah checks out Pansy’s pink dress. “Are you a flower girl? They didn’t tell me they were bringing one in.”

​

Pansy rolls her eyes before gluing them to mine. “That was a nice talk, Nora. We’ll have another one soon.”

She flounces off with a swish of her skirts, and Hannah, who stepped inside, slams the door behind her. It nearly tears off some of the taffeta, making Pansy squeak.

​

I smile at my friend. “Thanks for that.”

​

“What did she want, anyway? More nebulous threats? Drunken rants? Bon Jovi sing-alongs?” 

​

“She wanted to talk about Marco.”

​

“Oh, did THIRD CHOICE show up? I didn’t see him out there, although to be perfectly honest, I have a vicious hangover. I—”

​

“No, he’s not coming. Look, I’ll tell you everything, but I have to go see my mom.”

​

Her grimace says it all.

​

“What happened?” I ask, my heart thumping fast. My mother is a woman who takes care of everyone else and puts herself last. Today is her wedding day, dammit, and it will go off without a single hitch. “Did Cormac do something?”

 

Suddenly, my mind fills with images of Cormac carting his dad off in a literal shopping cart. 

​

“No,” she says. “He’s out there with Travis and the guys, but he is acting a little weird. Did you have a talk with him too?” 

​

“Yeah,” I say, rubbing the throbbing part of my head. “And I’m sorry to say I’ll need to do it again, after the ceremony.”

​

Hannah wrinkles her nose. “Is now a good time to tell you that the hairdresser I recommended gave your mother and the other bridesmaids beehives?”

​

Chapter Three

Cormac

 

Sweat beads on my hairline as I watch my father pledge to love and cherish Moira Applebaum forever.

​

I wonder if her hair is supposed to look like that, all piled up on top of her head like a boule of bread. I’ve never been one to notice trends. For all I know, it’s a fashionable new hairstyle, and this is simply the first time I’ve registered it. 

I remind myself that Moira is a perfectly nice woman, and she bakes uncommonly good apple pie. Perhaps she felt she had to, with a last name like that. Regardless, I don’t think my father should be marrying her.

​

My mother and father never told me they were unhappy when I was growing up, but I felt their misery. It was a silent weight we all carried. At first, I figured it was my fault for being different.

​

My mom had gotten pregnant accidentally, and since both of my parents were in their thirties at the time, they decided to get married and make a go of it. But my mom had two older brothers and a very specific view of what little boys should be like—mainly that they should enjoy contact sports and constant socialization. She hadn’t known what to do with me and my enthusiasm for nonfiction and breaking down and rebuilding electronics.

​

God knows, she tried to make me more normal. She brought me to endless social events so I would be “socialized”—the way you bring a dog to dog parks—and used to pinch my hand when I was supposed to make eye contact.

It hadn’t worked, obviously. Just like it hasn’t really worked for my dog, Cookie. So I’d assumed my mother was unhappy because of me. There was probably some truth to that, but it turned out she objected to my father too. 

 

Nine years ago, she went to some kind of motivational lecture, after which she informed him that she’d never loved him, marrying him had ruined her life, and she was taking half custody of poor Daisy.

​

I didn’t hold it against her. She definitely wasn’t happy, and everyone should at least try to be happy.

​

Besides, even though it is not a happy coincidence that Mrs. Applebaum is Nora’s mother, there have been some other happy coincidences attached to my father’s unexpected later-in-life pairing with Mrs. Applebaum.

 

For years, I’ve wanted to be in a band. 

​

I’ve always had an ear for music. Even when I was a little kid, I could memorize lyrics and bridges without trying. Everything about music spoke to me, but I was most drawn to the rhythmic foundation of the songs. Eventually I learned they were made by the bass guitar, which is such an overlooked but necessary instrument. I liked the thought of being the road for other people’s cars. So I taught myself how to play it. My friend Kenji and I used to jam together in his garage before he moved, but I’d always wanted to be part of something bigger. A real band. 

 

I didn’t think it would be possible for me, because I’m not a man who finds it natural to make opportunities. My brain isn’t built that way. But if an opportunity falls into my lap, I can build a fucking skyscraper out of it.

 

Which is what happened six months ago.

​

Hannah, who’s standing to my left in a tux that matches mine, set my dad up with Mrs. Applebaum, now Mrs. Applebaum-Peebles. It was through Hannah that I met Travis, the drummer for Garbage Fire. They’d needed a bassist, and in an unusual moment of daring, I told him I played bass.

​

The rest is history. I love being part of the band, but I still throw up before every performance, especially since our first album just released, and we’ve been steadily booking bigger gigs. We’re performing at the reception, so I’ll probably throw up tonight too, if only for consistency.

​

I don’t mean to look at Nora, but my eyes stray to the left of Mrs. Applebaum’s bread-boule hair and find the curve of Nora’s cheek, her messy brown bob, and the severe arch of her dark eyebrows. It gives her a look of being perpetually pissed off.

​

Nora’s wearing an ugly pea-green dress, but it doesn’t make her ugly, unfortunately. It suits her, especially with the bright red lipstick she always wears. That’s no novelty, of course.

​

Everything suits her.

​

I had a high school English teacher who loved to compare beautiful women to flowers. Each girl in class had a flower assigned to her. I was the only one who was surprised when he got busted for exchanging text messages with a few female students, but that’s beside the point. He was an idiot, in addition to being a pervert, because flowers aren’t nearly as eye-catching as, say, praying mantises. Or black widows. 

​

Nora has always seemed both beautiful and dangerous. In high school, she talked back to everyone, including all of our teachers. She had dozens of ideas, all of them interesting, everyone raved about her homemade ginger beer, and her wit was a barbed weapon she used to stab everyone—and God help me, I used to want my blood on her hands. 

It didn’t help at all that she wore that red lipstick every single day.

​

Yes, I had a vicious crush on her in high school, so bad I tripped over my words every time she spoke to me—and then revisited every interaction with excruciating agony for months. 

​

But in addition to razing a warpath through the school, she smoked outside of the building with the same assholes who thought it was hilarious to regularly steal my best friend’s gym shorts and mimic everything I said. She went to their parties too, something I knew because I was invited to one of them for helping a jock ace a test. I stayed for all of five minutes before finding a very good reason to leave.

​

Because no way was I going to make out with the girl I’d been fantasizing about in the same room as every popular kid in school, separated only by a folding door. 

​

We mostly avoided each other after that. Still, it had felt like a particularly hard pill to swallow when she made out with the biggest asshole in our year behind my senior year science project, which was supposed to be a big deal for me for a couple of different reasons, and ended up accidentally crushing it.

​

She barely apologized, as if I didn’t matter enough for her to feel true remorse. So I lost it and yelled at her.

We both got detention, and the day we graduated, she flipped me off when I got up to make my very short valedictorian speech.

​

Still…I never forgot that she was beautiful. 

​

I never forgot her at all. 

​

When her brewery opened, I saw the articles. I wasn’t surprised, because her ginger beer had been legendary, even then. Leave it to Nora to figure out how to make it even more appealing to the masses by rendering it alcoholic. 

 

But I didn’t go to The Ginger Station. I knew if she remembered me, it would only be with contempt. 

​

She obviously still holds me in contempt, but I’m consumed by the memory of our discussion in her office. In particular, by—

​

It’s perfectly normal to get turned on by your soon-to-be stepsister kneeling in front of you…

​

Yeah, I’ve repeated it in my head half a dozen times, but I still don’t buy it. 

​

Why the hell did she have to do that? Did she know it would drive me crazy?

​

I’ll have to talk the whole thing through with my friend Liam, who laughs at me for asking stupid questions but at least does it in front of my face rather than behind my back. There’s a lot to be said for that.

​

Liam was supposed to find me a date for the wedding—and he did, but she bowed out after meeting me. In my defense, I had no idea she wasn’t actually interested in the science behind the ball-throwing and retrieval robot I’d designed for my dog. If she’d been honest, I would have cut myself off.

​

“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant says, cluing me in on the fact that I missed the whole ceremony. 

​

My father tips Mrs. Applebaum backward. Her lofty hair nearly takes out the pedestal the officiant was using for notes, but the older woman who married them beams as my dad mauls his new wife with his mouth.

​

“Is there anything more wonderful than love?” she asks.

​

All the guests respond by bursting into applause. The vibe is congratulatory, as if everyone thinks my dad and Mrs. Applebaum are doing an extraordinarily good job of making out, and my father seems to puff up. 

​

I’m not sure why, but my gaze seeks out Nora’s. She pulls a face, nearly making me laugh, but I look away in time, pushing my glasses up by the bridge. They got messed up at my friend’s boxing gym several months back, and they’ve never fit the same since.

​

My gaze drifts to the other bridesmaids—one young and dark-haired, the other middle-aged. They both have the weird bread hairdo too, so maybe it is in style. Nora is the only one with normally proportioned hair.

​

“Dear me,” the officiant says joyfully as the kiss continues, and Mrs. Applebaum’s hair finally makes good on its threat and swipes over the papers on the pedestal, scattering them. “What a special moment. Let’s all get some drinks and give them a little time to themselves, don’t you think?”

​

She says it with a wink-and-nod expression, like she hopes my dad and Mrs. Applebaum, now Mrs. Applebaum-Peebles, will have sex in the special events room as soon as we leave.

​

Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past them. They seem to have forgotten that anyone else is present. My dad practically has her bent over the pedestal now, and the cheap wood is creaking.

​

While I’d rather not watch my father make out with my elementary school teacher, I feel a surprising pang of…

Loneliness.

​

Despite my doubts about marriage as a construct, my father is clearly deeply in love. I’ve never felt like that about someone, as if the rest of the world could melt away and I wouldn’t notice. As if everyone could be watching, and I’d see only her. 

​

For me, one thought tends to tumble into another, leading me down tangents that capture my attention. It happens all the time, often when I’m with other people, which makes it difficult to form real connections. 

​

Someone tugs at my arm, grounding me back in the present—warm room, soft lighting, my father making out with Mrs. Applebaum, and a hand on my arm.

​

Nora’s hand.

​

I meet her dark brown eyes beneath those sharp, slanted brows. “Are you actually enjoying this, Cormac? I worry about you.” 

​

I glance around, realizing that people have steadily been drifting out of the room. The officiant is gone, as well as Hannah, the other groomsman, my bandmates, and the bread-boule-hair ladies. Most of the wooden folding chairs, decorated with strands of miniature roses woven over the tops, are now empty.

​

Don’t need to tell me twice.

​

“Let’s go,” I say, prompting an eye roll from Nora.

​

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for at least thirty seconds. But you were staring off as if you were seeing your life flash before your eyes.”

​

“Maybe I was,” I mutter as I head for the door. “Seems like this is how it’s going to be from now on. Our parents making out and you getting on my case.” 

​

Kneeling in front of me.

​

We exit through the door, a few people filtering out after us, and to my surprise, Nora yanks me down the hall, away from the tasting room, where everyone else is headed for the reception. Seconds later, we’re standing in front of the closed door to her office again.

​

My heart starts beating faster as I glance down at her, waiting for an explanation. “Are you going to get down on your knees again?”

​

My voice sounds deeper than it should. Strange. But she doesn’t seem to notice. 

​

She rolls her eyes again and opens the door. “No, but I need to have a private word with you.”

​

“Didn’t we just do that?” I scratch my chin as I stare at the open door—feeling like I’ll be eaten alive if I step inside. It’s a small room, with a desk, an office chair, two visitor chairs, and an aggressive overhead light. Its only real sin is that it still smells like the pink dress woman’s sickly sweet vanilla perfume. But if I walk in there, I know I’ll be portalled right back into a better memory—Nora on her knees, smiling up at me. 

​

I swallow against my dry throat. “I have to meet up with the band.”

​

Not really. We’re not playing until after dinner, since my dad didn’t want me to “have to miss out” on the speech portion of the evening. (Ha.)

​

“This’ll just take a second,” Nora says, sounding almost…nervous?

​

“The vanilla scent in here is a little much.”

​

“Yeah, it’s pretty gross, isn’t it?” 

​

She’s smiling. I know I’ve pleased her, but I don’t have the faintest idea why.

​

“Please, Cormac,” she says, and I nearly groan. This again. I can deal with angry or annoyed Nora, not the Nora who begs.

​

I step into the vanilla stench, feeling like I’m stepping into hell itself, and she follows me inside, closing the door behind us. My body takes notice of everything, including the whisper of a breeze as she turns to face me again.

 

I swallow dryly again. “It’s a little too late to put a halt to the wedding. They’re probably consummating it as we speak. That little old woman seemed to think so.”

​

Her brow furrows. “Are you talking about Dottie? She’s not a little old woman.”

​

The officiant was both short, stature-wise, and elderly, but I know Nora too well to point that out. “If you say so.”

“She’s a very successful businesswoman.”

​

“That doesn’t make her any less little or old.”

​

“Haven’t you met her before? Dottie’s one of your dad’s best friends. She owns that tea shop downtown. She’s part of that group they’re in. You know, the Wise Elders.”

​

“I don’t make a point of hanging out with my father’s friends, do you?”

​

She snorts. “Fine. Point taken. My dad’s nearest and dearest are probably a study group of strippers.”

​

“Did you bring me in here to talk about Dottie or…strippers?” 

​

“No.” 

​

She walks over to the desk and opens a bottom drawer, pulling out a flask. After taking a swig, she offers it to me.

The thought of putting my mouth where hers has been stirs something inside of me, but that’s exactly the way I shouldn’t be feeling, so I shake my head. “You can keep your saliva to yourself.”

​

She rolls her eyes again and sets the flask on top of the desk. “I’m just going to come out and say it.”

​

“That would be for the best.”

​

“Pansy—”

 

“Who’s Pansy?”

 

“The vanilla woman.” 

 

I nod. 

 

Nora taps her lips, obviously hesitating.

 

“Nora?”

 

She takes a deep breath, then blurts, “She thinks you and I are in a secret relationship.”

 

Laughter spills out of me. “Why would she think that?”

 

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she was blushing. “Because she walked in on…you know.”

 

It’s my turn to blush, but I don’t understand why this is an issue, or a problem she deems worthy of discussion.

“So tell your friend we’re not dating. You can explain you were just messing with me.”

 

At least I’m reasonably sure that’s what she was doing. It makes the memory no less alluring, unfortunately.

 

Nora’s face pinches, as if she’s smelled something unsavory. Maybe it’s that vanilla perfume seeping into our pores. “She’s not my friend.”

 

“Probably for the best, if she wears that scent everywhere.”

 

She laughs, but her cheeks are still flushed pink, and there’s an unsettled air about her. Nora, who’s usually never uncertain, is uncertain about this. “I need her to keep thinking we’re dating, Cormac.”

 

“Why?” 

 

She explains what’s going on with The Ginger Station, while I listen in stupefied disbelief. I’ve been around Nora at least a dozen times over the past year, and she’s never mentioned any of this. Not to me, and not even in front of me.

 

“This is a bad idea,” I finally say. “Maybe the worst idea anyone has ever had. What if our parents find out?”

 

She starts pacing the tiny space. “They’re not going to find out. Why would they? Pansy assumes it’s this big secret, and as long as she thinks she can hold it over my head, she will.”

 

“Why would you let her do that?” I ask, at a loss. The Nora I know wouldn’t give anyone that kind of power over her.

 

“Because of José,” she says at once. “I can’t let her pressure him into quitting.” 

 

That’s when it clicks into place. Nora must be in love with her business partner. According to what I’ve reluctantly heard from my dad, they dated briefly a while back. She’s the one who broke it off, but she may have changed her mind. 

 

“I’m not a good liar. Why don’t you tell this woman you’re in a secret relationship with someone else?”

 

She clenches her jaw before admitting, “I already told her you and I are together.”

 

I stride over to the desk and snatch up the flask, opening it and taking a deep pull on it. Whiskey. Good whiskey. I screw the cap back on and set it down. “I’m not just bad at lying. I don’t like it.”

 

“Don’t think of it as lying. Think of it as playing a part.”

​

My scowl deepens. I do that often enough. I’m always playing a part, wearing other people’s gestures and expressions so they’ll assume I’m one of them. “I like that even less.”

​

She huffs in frustration. “Come on. The worst she’ll do is wink and nod. And maybe we can pretend to be holding hands while she’s looking.” 

​

“You can’t pretend to hold hands. Either you are or you’re not.” 

​

She takes a step toward me. Alarm thrums through me, and I raise my hand. “For the love of God. Please don’t get down on your knees again.”

​

A crease forms between her eyebrows. “I wasn’t going to. I was going to ask you what I can do for you. As a favor. You know…to make up for being a pain in the ass. Isn’t there something you need? Something I can do for you?”

 

“No,” I say, mostly because my mind is dangerously close to forming images of Nora getting on her knees in front of me for a different reason.

​

Her lips firm into a displeased line. 

​

“I’m not saying that to be an asshole,” I say, suddenly desperate to leave the room. It feels like it’s getting a millimeter smaller every second we’re trapped in here together. 

​

“So it comes naturally?”

​

“I suppose.”

​

She watches me as if she’ll find the key to her problem hanging off my face, and then her eyes brighten. “Hazel. You were watching her during the ceremony.”

​

“Who’s Hazel?”

​

“My cousin. The pretty woman who was standing next to me.”

​

“Oh. She seemed fine.” I should pat myself on the back for not reporting that I only looked at her once, to check out her bread-boule hair.

​

“Fine?” Nora scoffs. “She’s gorgeous. Everyone knows she’s gorgeous.”

​

“She’s not prettier than you.”

​

Nora’s lips part. She looks surprised, maybe even a little pleased.

​

“I’m not trying to hit on you or anything,” I say quickly. “It’s just true. I don’t mind telling you what you already know.”

​

She nods slowly. “Well, what if I can get you a shot with Hazel?” 

​

“Let me get this straight. You want me to pretend to be your secret boyfriend, and in exchange, you’ll set me up with your cousin?” Whom I couldn’t pick out of a lineup.

​

“Sure!” she says quickly, her tone overly bright. “Let’s go with that. It sounds like an even exchange.” 

​

“That’s an even worse idea than your original one.”

​

“Don’t you want to meet someone nice?” she asks, her tone wheedling. “Your father told my mom you haven’t been on a date in, like, six months.”

​

Ouch. 

​

“I’m sure it hasn’t been that long.” 

​

She studies me, her gaze unwavering. 

​

“I got wrapped up in the band thing,” I admit. “And I’ve had a career shift. I haven’t had time for anything else.”

 

“I’ll bet a lot of women hit on you after concerts.”

 

I shrug. “Maybe. I’ve never been very good at figuring out what women want.”

 

“I believe that.”

 

I’m annoyed and tempted to say something hurtful like, My father tells me you haven’t been in a serious relationship for years, so I’m guessing you’re no expert either.

 

Instead, I settle for “Nice talk,” and turn toward the door.

 

Her hand wraps around my arm, but when I swivel back toward her, she pulls it away.

 

“You’ve been working out.”

 

“You’re really desperate, aren’t you?” I ask, laughing. Maybe because high school me would get a kick out of Nora Leigh being desperate for anyone to think we were dating. 

 

A familiar displeasure spills into her expression. “There must be something else you want. Something I can do for you…”

 

My mind flashes, again, to the memory of her on her knees.

 

Dammit, testosterone is not my friend today. I’d prefer to remember all the times Nora has been aggravating. There have been plenty, starting over a decade ago, and I don’t feel guilty for thinking so. I’m certain she’d say the same about me.

 

“I’ll do anything,” she says, which seriously is not helping.

 

Then again…there is something I need help with. Something I’ve been worrying about.

 

“Can you dog-sit next weekend? The band has a couple of shows in Atlanta. I’d need you to stay in my house, though. My dog’s a little…particular.”

 

She brightens, her whole face lighting up with hope, and of course she’s even more beautiful like this. Looking at me like I could be the solution to all of her problems rather than the cause of them. “Of course! I told you. I’d be a great pet owner.” 

 

“All right.”

 

“I’m sure your dog and I will get along great,” she gushes.

 

I’m less sure, but I’ll give Nora this. She’s good at getting what she wants from people. 

 

Just like she’s about to get what she wants from me.

 

Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing, though. My father asked me to be nice to her, and I’d do anything to get out of this room…

​

“Okay,” I tell Nora, holding out my hand for a shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” 

​

The wattage of her face somehow increases further, and I’m surprised by how much it lightens my own mood to see her happy like this, knowing I played a part in it. Even if it was by agreeing to a ridiculous lie.

​

“You’ll pretend you’re my secret boyfriend in exchange for dog-sitting? Hell, yes.” She slips her small hand in mine. Her middle finger is slightly crooked, arcing to the right by a few millimeters, and I crush the urge to trace it as I give her hand a firm shake. 

​

“So this is what it feels like to make a deal with the devil,” I say.

​

She just smiles at me—a softer smile than usual—and before I leave her office, I smile back like the idiot I am.

​​

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