Big Rock (Big Rock #1) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,35

says. “Friends don’t let friends eat gummy bears alone. I’ll bring the bears.”

“I’ll eat the green ones for you.”

She shudders. “Hate the green ones.”

“And I’ll get the wine. If memory serves, you prefer a chardonnay with your bears?”

“I do, but maybe virgin margaritas tonight instead?”

I toss my napkin onto the table with a flourish. “Touched for the very first time,” I say, and again, maybe I should have thought first before those words came out.

Mercifully, the waitress arrives.

“Here are your eggs,” the waitress says, setting down the plates. “Well-cooked. Just like you asked for.”

Those last words echo loudly as I realize what I’ve just done. What I’ve asked for with my cocky mouth. My big ideas. My I-can-pull-anything-off attitude.

I just invited Charlotte into my house tonight. There aren’t enough sweaty basketball players in the universe for me to deal with the danger in that decision.

* * *

We spend the rest of the meal planning for the week ahead at The Lucky Spot. Neither one of us breathes another word about tonight, or last night, or our fake relationship. When we stop by The Lucky Spot and spend a few hours working before Jenny handles the Sunday afternoon shift—and before we head to the museum—we manage the slide back into being friends and business partners so smoothly, it’s as if last night never happened.

But once we set foot in the museum, something changes.

Handsy Charlotte has left the building. Sure, she’s still playing my fiancée, but she’s not as committed to the role as she was last night. I have no clue if my mom or Mrs. Offerman can tell, but as we stare at an Edward Hopper painting, I do my damnedest to make sure no one knows.

“The painting is beautiful,” Mrs. Offerman says.

“Yes, it is,” I chime in.

I wrap an arm tightly around my fake fiancée, plant a quick kiss on her cheek, and say, “Like you. By the way, have I told you how pretty you look today?”

Charlotte tenses, but manages a thanks.

My mother glances at us and smiles.

Emily does not. Emily seems to have zero interest in the artwork, even though this is her intended major.

But that’s okay. I’m returning to the swing of things. I’m on my game. As we wander through Chagalls and Matisses, I make witty comments, and all the women laugh, including Charlotte. When we’re out at the sculpture garden, I’m confident Charlotte and I are on solid ground, and we’re good enough at playing pretend.

Until Emily turns to her. “How long have you been in love with Spencer?”

Charlotte stiffens, and a burst of red splashes across her cheeks.

“I mean, were you attracted to him first before you started dating?” Emily continues. “Because you’ve been friends forever, right? So was it just one of those—”

“Emily, dear. Some things are personal,” Mrs. Offerman says, cutting in.

The teenage girl shrugs like this is no big deal. “I’m just curious. They went to college together. I don’t think it’s that weird to want to know if they were into each other back then.”

Charlotte raises her chin. “We’ve always been friends,” she says, then presses her hand to her forehead. “Excuse me.”

She takes off.

My mother glares at me, and all I can think is, she knows. Her eyes track Charlotte’s exit through the glass doors into the museum, and instantly my mother beckons me. I close the gap. She speaks low, out of the corner of her mouth. “She’s upset about something. Go after her. Comfort her.”

Right, of course. Super Fiancé to the rescue. Moms always know best.

I rush after Charlotte, through the door and down the hallway, catching up to her as she reaches the ladies’ room. I call out to her, but she’s got her hand on the door, and she pushes it open.

The door swings shut, and I stop.

For a second.

The hallway is quiet, far removed from most of the museum traffic. I push on the door and follow her in. She’s at the sink, splashing water on her face.

“Are you okay?” I ask tentatively as I walk over to her. There are three stalls in here, but they’re empty. Footsteps echo then fade down the hall.

She shakes her head. I reach her, place a hand on her lower back, and gently rub. She flinches, and inches away from me.

“Are you not feeling well? Do you have a headache from last night or something?”

The door creaks, and we freeze. It closes again, but I don’t hear anyone come in. The ladies’ room is silent; it’s