Page 11

HARPER

Clearly Amelia doesn't know me very well yet because I have an outfit for every possible life event.

Wedding guest? Check.

Funeral? Depressingly enough, check.

Formal gala where I have to play girlfriend to a hot hockey player? Double check.

God, I would love to buy something new just to feel a little more alive. But we all know my bank account is currently gasping for air.

The three dots pop up almost immediately, Millie typing back so fast it makes me smile.

I nearly snort-laugh, shoving my phone closer to my chest like I'm hiding some scandalous secret.

Girlfriend.

Jesus.

I shake my head, thumbs flying again.

A second passes. Then another.

I grin, tapping back without missing a beat.

"Why are you smiling so much?"

The voice comes out of nowhere, slicing through the steady background noise of pucks hitting boards and skates cutting across ice.

I practically jump a foot in the air, clutching my phone against my chest like it's some kind of national security secret.

I spin around, heart hammering, and find a small, wild-haired figure staring up at me — all tangled dark curls, pink cheeks, and mischievous green eyes that miss absolutely nothing.

"I—" I start, fumbling for words, but she barrels forward without even giving me the chance.

"Do you have another boyfriend?" she demands, planting her hands firmly on her hips, standing there like a tiny detective ready to crack the case wide open. Her voice rings out across the practice rink, a little too loud, making a couple of players glance over and smirk.

I feel my face heat, glancing down at the camera slung around my neck like I just remembered I have a job to do.

The guys from the Vancouver Wolves are still finishing up drills, the scrape of their skates and the slap of sticks echoing through the massive arena.

I can smell the sharp metallic tang of the ice, the faint hint of sweat and old coffee lingering in the air.

Right. Work. I'm supposed to be photographing, not getting interrogated about my fake love life by an eight-year-old.

"Because Daddy says," Harriet continues, oblivious to my full-body meltdown, "that if someone smiles at their phone that much, it's because they have a boyfriend.

Or a girlfriend. Do you?" She tilts her head, her expression pure innocent curiosity — but there's not a single ounce of chill in her tiny body.

I blink at her, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Am I even allowed to talk about this?

I mean, technically, it's not real —

The world's about to think it's real after tonight — but what about the people who actually matter?

Harriet's basically family to Millie. Does she know what's happening? Do we want her to know?

My heart flutters and stumbles at the thought — not just because I'm nervous about keeping the story straight, but because it feels... wrong to lie to a kid who trusts you with wide, hopeful eyes.

But what else am I supposed to say?

Yeah, sweetie, your auntie and I are pretending to be madly in love for the cameras but don't worry, it's totally fake?

"Harpeeeeer," she whines, stretching my name out like taffy. "Do you? Do you? Do youuuu?"

Each repetition gets more desperate, her big green eyes widening like she's on the verge of collapsing from sheer curiosity.

God, I can't even be mad. She's way too cute. And way too determined.

I open my mouth to respond—maybe stall, maybe lie—when a familiar, gruff voice cuts through the air like a slapshot.

"Little Johnson!" Coach Garrison yells from behind the boards, voice booming across the ice like a referee throwing a penalty. "Leave my employees alone!"

I snort, half choking on my own laugh, spinning around to see him standing there, arms crossed, giving Harriet his best scary coach face—which, honestly, has zero effect on her.

She just grins wide, mischievous and fearless, before turning back to me.

"She's mine too!" Harriet shouts back proudly, her hands flailing in the air like she's claiming me in front of a crowd.

"What?" I say innocently to Harriet, raising an eyebrow. "And also—I'm not your employee! I work for Mr. Carpenter. He signs my paychecks, thank you very much."

Mr. Carpenter. The big boss. General Manager of the Vancouver Wolves and technically my boss's boss's boss. Coach Garrison only runs the practices and line changes—important, sure, but he doesn't own my soul.

I shake my head, amused and still buzzing from the absurdity of it all.

The Wolves' practice is winding down, players coasting lazily over the ice now, flicking pucks back and forth and talking with each other.

The late afternoon sun is pouring through the tall windows of the arena, setting everything in a soft, glowing haze.

And here I am, kneeling at the edge of the rink with an eight-year-old and my phone still buzzing in my pocket from Millie's last text.

Tonight.

The gala. The first real test of this whole fake girlfriend charade.

And suddenly, under all the laughter and lightness, I feel a pang of nerves tighten in my gut.

What if I screw it up? What if I make Millie look worse instead of better? She's trusting me with her reputation—and maybe even her heart, in some weird unspoken way—and I can't afford to mess this up.

"Hey," Harriet says suddenly, poking me with a gloved finger. "Answer my question."

I blink down at her. She's staring at me so seriously that it nearly knocks the air out of me.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" she asks again, voice softer now, like maybe it matters more than she lets on.

I exhale slowly, crouching so we're eye to eye.

"No," I say, my voice low and honest. "No boyfriend. No girlfriend either. Just... figuring stuff out."

Harriet nods thoughtfully, like I've just imparted some great life lesson. "Good," she decides, with the bluntness only a kid could get away with. "Boys are stinky."

I laugh so hard I have to lean back on my heels, my camera thudding against my chest. God, she really is Millie's niece through and through.

"You're probably right," I tell her, smiling for real this time. "Girls are way cooler anyway."

She grins, pleased, and then spots her dad waving from across the rink. "Bye, Harper!" she singsongs, running off with her skates clacking loudly against the concrete as she disappears behind the boards.

My phone buzzes again, vibrating against the bench beside me, and I jump a little, my heart skipping like it's wired too tight.

I press my lips together, biting down the stupid, giddy smile threatening to take over my whole face.

Get a grip, I tell myself, picking it up with a casualness I absolutely do not feel.

My heart lurches into my throat.

What's wrong?

My brain, of course, immediately abandons all rational thought and starts sprinting toward every worst-case scenario it can invent.

You need to move out.

I found someone else I'd rather have as my fake girlfriend.

I don't trust you.

You can't come tonight.

I suck in a slow, shaky breath, thumbs moving faster than my brain can catch up.

For a second, I just stare at the screen.

And then, slowly, the tight knot in my chest unwinds, replaced with something helpless and messy and warm.

Jesus Christ. Amelia. I let out a laugh—quiet and breathy—and feel the tension bleed out of my shoulders. She really is dramatic, I think, fondness curling up somewhere deep inside my ribs. I play along, thumbs flying.

A laugh bursts out of me, so loud and sudden that a couple of the players on the ice glance my way, curious. I duck my head quickly, pretending to fiddle with the settings on my camera, heat creeping up the back of my neck.

God, my cheeks actually hurt from smiling. The image of Amelia Bennett, literal hockey icon, wandering through downtown Vancouver, hunting down espresso machines like it's some kind of sacred quest—it's so stupidly sweet I could cry.

It's the kind of thing a mom would do for a little kid. Buying a new goldfish every time the old one died, thinking the kid wouldn't notice if the color was just slightly off.

It's... It's more kindness than I know what to do with.

See you at home.

My heart does a full somersault, landing in my throat.

Home. I tuck the phone into my back pocket, swallowing down the weird, thick emotion rising inside me, and glance back toward the ice.

Tonight I step into Millie's world in a way that's bigger and messier and way, way more dangerous than I probably realize. My stomach flips. I wipe my hands down the sides of my jeans, nerves creeping under my skin like tiny ants.

I have a dress. I have a plan. I know what to do—smile, look supportive, hold Millie's hand like it's the easiest thing in the world. Which, let's be honest, it might be. Because Millie Bennett is... a lot of things. And easy to like? Very, very high on the list.

Camera slung around my neck, bag dragging at my shoulder, I make my way out of the arena, boots crunching over the gritty, half-melted snow. My hands are freezing, my shoulders sore, and all I want is a hot shower and a nap.

So when I spot the familiar brown-haired girl leaning against a beat-up old car in the parking lot—two lattes balanced in her hands and a giant grin stretched across her face—I blink in surprise, heart lifting without permission.

Audrey.

The reason I even have a place to live in this country.

The one person who never once made me feel like a burden, even when my whole life was crumbling.

"What are you doing here?" I call out, hurrying toward her, a stupid smile breaking across my face. I wrap my arms around her neck without thinking, squeezing her tight.

"I missed you!" I mumble into her jacket. She laughs, warm and easy, shifting the coffees so she can hug me back.

"I missed you too, troublemaker. Sorry I disappeared—school's been kicking my ass, and now Lucas dumped Harriet on me for a few days." She pulls back, rolling her eyes affectionately. "I barely have time to breathe, let alone be a good friend."

"It's okay. I get it." I pull away, shivering a little in the cold. "You're here now."

Audrey hands me a latte, lifting her brows like she's about to get into something. "I am. And you, my friend, are coming with me."

I eye her suspiciously as I wrap my frozen hands around the warm cup. "What's up?"

She smirks. "How do you feel about the beach? And—" her eyes gleam "—a little chat about why the hell you're dating my best friend."

Heat explodes across my face so fast it's embarrassing. "Oh my god," I groan, already burying my face in my hands. "Fake dating. Fake. Important distinction."

Audrey just wiggles her eyebrows like I said something way more incriminating. I have no choice but to follow her to the passenger seat, because honestly, when Audrey decides something's happening, it's happening. It's how I ended up living with Millie in the first place.

We slide into the car, the heat blasting, the windows already fogging slightly from the sudden temperature difference. The city blurs past as she pulls out of the lot, heading toward the beach.

I sip my latte, grateful for the caffeine, grateful for her, grateful for—God, everything, even though my life feels upside down.

"So." Audrey says after a beat, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. "Explain."

I fiddle with the sleeve of my jacket, trying to gather the words. "It's not... It's not what it sounds like," I start. "It's just until the media stops tearing her apart. You've seen it, right? The headlines?"

Audrey nods, her face going serious for a second. "Yeah. It's brutal. And unfair as hell."

"She didn't want to do it," I admit quietly. "She's pissed about the whole thing. And I just... I couldn't let her go through it alone. She gave me a place to live, a bed to sleep in. I have to help her."

Audrey smiles a little, tilting her head to glance at me. "You're a softie."

I groan, knocking my head back against the seat. "Don't start."

"No, seriously," she teases, nudging my arm lightly.

"Millie's like... a cat that doesn't trust easy.

You can pet her once, and then she'll glare at you for six months.

But you—" Audrey grins wide—knowing and mischievous—

"You she let move in with her.

You she's fake dating. That's not nothing. "

I stare out the window, heart thudding a little too hard. It's not nothing, some traitorous part of me whispers. I think about the texts. The way she looks at me sometimes, all soft and exasperated. The way I feel when she says stuff like see you at home.

"She's just being nice," I say lamely. "We're just helping each other."

Audrey snorts so hard she nearly spits out her coffee. "Millie Bennett doesn't do things just to be nice, Harp. She cares hard or not at all. Always been that way. Ask anyone who knows her."

I tuck my legs up onto the seat, wrapping my arms around them.

"So what are you getting out of this deal?" she asks, her voice softer now, curious but not pushy.

I shrug, trying to sound casual even as my chest feels tight. "The most beautiful apartment in the city?" I say, tilting my head like I'm joking. "The most comfortable bed I've ever slept in?"

Audrey lifts her eyebrows like she's not buying the act for a second.

"Uh-huh. Real smooth, Harp," she teases. "You're practically living in a Pinterest board. Anything else you forgot to mention?"

I take another sip of my latte, letting the warmth settle in my chest. Outside, a gull soars low over the beach, its cry sharp and lonely against the crashing waves.

Audrey's still watching me, waiting. "You have that wedding coming up, right?

" she says, nudging me lightly with her elbow.

"Didn't you say you needed a date? It's kind of a win-win.

You show up with the most wanted woman in the country, and she gets.

.. whatever the hell it is she's getting out of this. "

Right.

The wedding.

Shannon's wedding. I haven't even thought about it since everything exploded. Definitely haven't thought about asking Millie.

Fake date. Real wedding. Real people. Real questions. Real memories. Real... pain.

I pick at the lid of my coffee cup, the cardboard edge fraying under my fingernail. The idea of walking into a room full of old friends—alone—makes my stomach knot. But the idea of showing up with Millie—loud, fearless, impossible not to look at— That's a whole different kind of terrifying.

"Earth to Harper," Audrey says, leaning over to tap my forehead with one finger. "You're spiraling."

I blink up at her, cheeks heating. "I'm not spiraling."

"You're definitely spiraling," she laughs. "Relax. It's just a wedding. Fake girlfriend. Fake smiles. Free cake. What's the worst that could happen? You gonna ask her?"

I groan, dropping my head back against the seat. "I don't even know how. Like, 'Hey, want to come fake-love me in front of my ex and his friends?' Great pitch."

Audrey laughs, full and bright. "You're so dramatic. You're not proposing. It's one night— just like tonight. You're helping each other in this."

I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly.

"Maybe I will," I say, trying for casual, even if my stomach is already twisting itself into nervous knots.

"We haven't even talked much about the whole.

.. fake thing. She just said tonight's the gala, we have to pose for some pictures, pretend to be madly in love, and that's it. "

Audrey hums knowingly, turning the keys in the ignition. "Madly in love,' huh?" she teases. "Sounds pretty serious for something fake."

I roll my eyes and shove her shoulder lightly, but she's not wrong. Every time I let myself think about tonight—about standing next to Millie, her arm around me, everyone looking at us—it does something weird to my lungs. Like they forget how to work properly.

The drive back is quick, a blur of wet streets and grey skies.

Vancouver in the winter, the city always feels half-asleep, half-sighing.

My heart's picking up speed the closer we get to the apartment.

It's stupid, I tell myself. We're just roommates.

Friends. Co-conspirators in a ridiculous plan.

But when Audrey pulls up outside the building and gives me a pointed look, I know I'm not fooling anyone.

"You'll be fine," she says, squeezing my arm before I climb out. "Just ask her. Be normal."

"Right," I mutter under my breath. "Because that's something I'm great at."

Audrey just laughs and drives away, her taillights disappearing down the street.

I stand there for a second, bag slung over my shoulder, coffee still warm in my hand, feeling the weight of tonight pressing down on me.

Fake girlfriend. Fake smiles. Fake normal.

I push the door open and step into the lobby.

By the time I reach our floor, my heart's basically doing backflips. I swipe my key card and push into the apartment, feeling the familiar weight of nerves settle heavy in my chest.

And then I stop dead. Millie's in the kitchen, leaning against the counter like some kind of living daydream—barefoot, a glass of something golden in her hand, loose shorts hanging low on her hips, and an old hoodie slipping scandalously off one shoulder.

Her auburn hair's twisted into a messy bun, a few strands falling into her eyes, making her look infuriatingly, unfairly gorgeous.

I actually forget how to breathe. Like, genuinely, my body forgets the mechanics of oxygen.

She glances up when she hears the door, a lazy, lopsided smile pulling at her mouth—and something low and dangerous curls inside me, hot and heady and completely unhelpful.

"Hey, Harps," she says, voice rough like she hasn't spoken in a while, like she just woke up and I'm the first thing she sees. "What're you doing?"

And I can't think. I can't think at all.

"I—uh—" I clear my throat, desperate to remember the English language, trying not to stare at the way the hoodie slips even lower as she shifts. "Just got back from... life. What about you?"

She lifts her glass and tips it toward me. "Waiting for you."

It's casual. Offhand. Probably meaningless. But it lands like a punch to my chest. I set my bag down carefully by the door, like if I move too fast the moment might shatter. "Yeah?" I manage, voice embarrassingly small.

"Yeah." She pushes off the counter and strolls toward the couch, barefoot and easy, leaving me rooted to the floor. "Big night, fake girlfriend."

I trail after her slowly, heart hammering against my ribs. "You drinking whiskey to prepare?" I tease, eyeing the glass.

Millie chuckles low under her breath and flops onto the couch, legs tucked up under her. "Apple juice," she admits, wiggling the glass in my direction. "Don't want my fake girlfriend carrying me home over her shoulder."

The image—me, hauling Millie's tall, gorgeous self out of a black-tie event, her laughing into my neck—makes something giddy and reckless rise in my throat.

"Shame," I say lightly, tossing myself into the armchair across from her. "Could've been a good bonding moment."

She grins, slow and a little wicked. "There's still time."

I tuck myself deeper into the armchair, trying to act casual. Trying not to let it show how every cell in my body feels like it's humming in anticipation.

This was supposed to be easy, right? Fake dating. Posing for some pictures. Smiling at the cameras. No big deal.

But sitting here, with her looking like that—bare legs, bare face, bare everything—it's suddenly very, very clear that I'm out of my depth.

Millie stretches her arms over her head in that lazy, slow way again, hoodie riding up just enough to make my brain short-circuit.

I quickly drag my eyes up to her face, only to find her smirking at me like she caught me looking.

Which, fine. She did.

I open my mouth—no idea what I was planning to say—but she's already moving.

One second she's lounging back, the next she's unfolding herself from the couch and sauntering over, bare feet soundless against the hardwood floor.

Her glass clinks lightly as she sets it on the coffee table, and then she's standing in front of me, so close I have to tilt my head back to look up at her.

My heart stutters.

And then she leans down.

Not all the way. Not touching. Just... leaning, lowering herself until she's hovering over me, one hand braced against the arm of the chair, caging me in without actually making contact.

I suck in a sharp, startled breath, the sudden proximity frying every coherent thought I've ever had. She smells like apple juice and warm laundry and something faintly sweet I can't name.

"What are you doing?" I ask, voice embarrassingly high-pitched.

Millie's mouth curves into a slow, devastating smile—the kind of smile you can feel down your spine. "Practicing," she murmurs, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Practicing.

Practicing.

Right. Of course.

Totally normal.

My palms are sweating. I try to laugh it off, but it comes out thin and shaky, because Jesus Christ she's so close. It's too much and not enough all at once.

"You're—" I start to say something, anything, but then she shifts even closer, until the space between us is nothing but shared air.

"You're really bad at pretending," she teases softly, like she can hear the way my heart is trying to beat itself out of my chest.

"Am not," I breathe back, though it sounds unconvincing even to me.

Millie's eyes glint, mischief and something heavier simmering underneath.

"You're blushing," she points out smugly, lifting a hand like she's about to touch my cheek—but stopping just shy, fingers hovering close enough to make my skin ache.

I stay very, very still, afraid that if I move, I might actually explode.

"You're evil," I mutter, desperate to save even a shred of dignity.

She laughs, low and rough, and it slides under my skin like a secret.

"Just committed to my craft," she says.

And before I can think better of it, I blurt out, "If this is acting, you're way too good at it."

Something flickers across her face at that—something unreadable—but it's gone as quickly as it came.

She straightens up slowly, the spell breaking only slightly, and offers me a hand like she's helping a damsel up from distress.

I hesitate a beat too long before taking it, her fingers wrapping warm and sure around mine as she pulls me to my feet.

"Come on," Millie says, squeezing my hand once before letting go, like it's nothing. Like it didn't just ignite my entire bloodstream. "We've got a gala to crash and the world to fool."