“So basically everything that goes through your head gets documented?”
“Where else would it go? My memory is like a sieve, only with pretty colors and gel pens.” She points an accusing finger at me. “And before you make fun of my organizational system, I think it’s crucial to establish clear parameters for this relationship. We need boundaries, expectations, and a general game plan so we don’t accidentally do something that humiliates the other person.”
The fact that she’s put so much thought into our dating relationship is impressive since it’s not even real. It makes me wonder how much effort she’d put into anactualrelationship. And I already know the answer:her entire heart.
My heart sinks down to my shoes, knowing I’ll never know what that’s like to be in an actual relationship with her. The only part of Scarlett Rossi I’ll get is one wedding date. Onefakewedding date, while someone else gets to have her for the rest of their lives.
“What kind of parameters are we talking about?” I grind out.
She clears her throat and plucks a sticky note from the dash. “Okay, step one: maintain close proximity at all times. Act like we’re attached at the hip. But only in public of course. Otherwise, it’s just weird.”
Good to know where I stand.Right back in high school, close enough to want her, but not close enough to have her.
I brush that thought away. “Okay, what else?”
“Step two: Give each other freakishly cute pet names.”
I scoff. “Pet names?Are you kidding me?” The thought of using pet names makes me shudder.
“Don’t most couples have pet names?” she asks innocently. “Likebaby cakes,orsweetie pie,or my personal favorite—snuggle muffin?”
“Who in their right mind wants to be called a breakfast pastry?”
She shrugs. “Do you have a better idea?”
“How about just using my actual name? Or maybeAssistant Coach?”
“That’s not a nickname, that’s your title. Unless…” She gets an impish gleam in her eye. “I called youAss Coach,for short?”
“Rossi, you wouldn’t dare.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Try me, Marco.”
“At least come up with something a bunch of hockey players won’t turn into an embarrassing meme.”
“Fine,” she huffs, like she’s making a tremendoussacrifice. “But if I’m going to be your wedding date, the least you could do is make this arrangement entertaining for me.”
“Entertainment does not include being called something I can’t repeat in front of my family.”
Her smirk turns diabolical. “It does for me.”
Just then a phone starts buzzing from somewhere in the depths of her enormous bag. Without warning, she flips the entire thing upside down, dumping the contents across my pristine SUV floor.
“What are you doing?” Candy wrappers, loose change, and approximately forty-seven sticky notes scatter everywhere. My SUV, which was professionally detailed yesterday, now looks like a toddler threw a birthday party inside.
“What does it look like? I’m trying to find my phone.” A screen glows from underneath what appears to be a half-finished knitting project that’s either a sock or the state of Connecticut.
“It’s Mom.” She gives me a nervous glance. “Do you think this is about the Facebook post?”
“Only one way to find out.”
She bites her lip before swiping the screen. “Hey, Mom!” she says, her voice wobbling a little. “Yeah, we’re on our way. What’s up?” She gives me another worried glance. “Okay, no problem. By the way, have you talked to Marion Henderson lately? Oh, she’s visiting her sister in Florida?” A look of relief crosses her face. “No particular reason. I just wondered if she was home. Well, see you soon!”
She hits end, then tosses her phone back into her bag. “Good news. She’s completely oblivious about the Facebook situation.”
“Well, that takes the pressure off tonight.”
“Yes…andno.”