Five days of trying not to fall for Mitchell Drake.
That’s the real danger here. Not his family, not the charade, not the potential professional complications.
It’s the way he looked at me when he said he wanted me. Like I was the answer to a question he’d been asking himself for a long time.
I shake my head, refocusing on my spreadsheet. This is exactly the kind of thinking that got me in trouble before. Professional boundaries exist for a reason.
But as I try to concentrate on fan engagement metrics, one traitorous thought keeps creeping in.
What if?
Chapter Four
What If
Clare
My apartment is small but mine—exposed brick walls, hardwood floors that creak in all the right places, and a kitchen barely big enough for two people, even if they’re very friendly. I've filled it with things that make me happy—bookshelves crammed with romance novels, a vintage leather couch, and fairy lights strung everywhere. I'm not quite ready to give up on magic entirely.
Bryn is sprawled across said couch, a glass of wine in one hand and judgment in her dark eyes.
“Let me get this straight,” she says, gesturing with her wine like she’s conducting an orchestra. “Mitchell Drake—six-foot-three of pure hockey hotness—asked you to be his fake girlfriend for Christmas, and you said no?”
“I didn’t say no exactly. I said I’d think about it.”
“Same thing, in your stubborn little brain.”
I curl deeper into the oversized armchair that faces her, pulling my legs up under me. “It’s not stubborn. It’s smart. There are about seventeen different ways this could blow up in my face.”
“Name three.”
“Easy. One—I could fall for him and make things weird at work. Two—his family could hate me, and I’d spend five days being tortured by people who make amazing Christmas cookies. Three—the whole thing could leak and tank my professional reputation.”
That was easier than I thought, which only further illustrates what a horrible idea this would be.
Bryn considers this, swirling her wine thoughtfully. “Counterpoint—you could have the best Christmas of your adult life, get some serious eye candy for five days, and maybe—just maybe—stop being so scared of actually living.”
“I’m not scared of living.”
“You’re terrified of it. You’ve been hiding behind work and Roberto for two years.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “We arenotdiscussing Roberto.”
“Oh, we’re absolutely discussing Roberto. Your reliable, battery-operated boyfriend who never leaves the toilet seat up or forgets to text back.” Bryn grins wickedly. “Though I have to ask—does he come with different settings now? Because technology has really advanced—”
“Bryn!”
“What? I’m just saying, if you’re going to replace human companionship with a machine, you might as well get the deluxe model.”
I chuck a pillow at her, and Bryn only laughs.
“When’s the last time you went on a real date? And I mean real—not some corporate networking thing where you spend the whole night talking about quarterly projections.”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. She’s not wrong. My dating life has been approximately as exciting as watching paint dry and twice as disappointing.
“That’s different.”
“How?”