Page 22

Under the table, Hunter’s hand slips onto my thigh, his fingers giving it a playful squeeze like he’s in on the joke.

And even though I know it’s fake, my heart doesn’t seem to get the message.

It has me wondering about our second interview, and whether I’m willing to risk making Hunter upset for the ratings I need.

Oh God…am I falling for my fake boyfriend?

After dinner, we’re all full and sleepy, lounging around the living room while Jesse wheels himself in and out, bouncing between conversation and trying to snag extra dessert without anyone noticing.

Hunter’s been glued to Jesse’s side most of the night—not in a forced way, but like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Watching them makes something soft settle low in my chest, and I keep reminding myself this isn’t real.

Once I get my network deal and Bethany moves back to New Jersey, taking her trade deal with her, this all ends. Doesn’t it?

When we finally say our goodnights, Mom hugs me tight and whispers in my ear, “You’ve got a good one there.”

I don’t even bother correcting her. Not tonight.

Hunter crouches down next to Jesse’s chair. “Hey, buddy. Next time you want to come to a game, you let me know. I’ll have a set of tickets waiting for you at will-call.”

Jesse’s eyes light up, wide and round. “Like, forever?”

Hunter chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “Not forever,” I jump in quickly, knowing full well how Jesse latches onto things. “Hunter plays in different cities. We don’t know how long he’ll be—”

Hunter cuts me off gently, his gaze never leaving Jesse’s. “As long as I’m playing, and wherever I’m playing, you’ll have a home game ticket. Deal?”

Jesse beams like Hunter just handed him the Stanley Cup. “Deal.”

I glance over at Abby, and she’s giving me that look again. The one that says, this man is perfect .

Except he’s not.

He wouldn’t even be here tonight if we weren’t pretending.

“And if your aunt is nice to you,” Hunter adds with a wink, “maybe she can tag along too.”

I roll my eyes. “Cute.”

But my heart thumps anyway.

The drive home is quiet.

Not awkward quiet—just that kind of full, satisfied quiet you get after a long day surrounded by family and too much food.

Outside, the streets are nearly empty, the outskirts of Seattle still asleep in its post-holiday haze. Inside the truck, the heat hums low, the dashboard lights casting a soft glow across Hunter’s profile.

He hasn’t turned on the radio this time. Maybe he’s too full of turkey and pie. Maybe he’s lost in thought like I am.

I stare out the window, the cool glass pressed against my temple, replaying the night in my head—Jesse’s smile, Mom’s laugh, the way Hunter fit so easily into all of it.

It’s dangerous, how good he is at this. How natural it felt having him there. How easy it was to forget it was all fake.

His hand moves, resting casually on the center console, fingers tapping against the leather.

I glance over.

He catches me looking and flashes that damn crooked grin like he knows exactly what I’ve been thinking.

My stomach does a little flip.

"Thanks for coming tonight," I say, breaking the silence.

Hunter keeps his eyes on the road but his voice softens. "I wouldn't have missed it."

That’s the problem.

He’s too convincing.

And I can’t afford to forget why he’s here.

By the time we get back to the townhouse, my limbs feel like lead, my stomach still too full from two helpings of pie, and my brain buzzing with everything I don’t want to think about—how easy it would be to want more of this.

Hunter carries the leftover container of pie into the kitchen while I shuffle down the hall, already tugging my hair tie loose.

When I come back out, he’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when he hears me and gives me a soft, tired smile.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

I cross to the bedroom and disappear into the bathroom to change, brushing my teeth and washing off my makeup like it’s any other night. Like I haven’t spent the whole day pretending he’s my boyfriend.

When I finally crawl into bed, the pillow wall is back, but it doesn’t feel like much of a barrier anymore.

Hunter flips the light off and slides under the covers, turning onto his side to face me.

“I’ll be gone tomorrow,” he says quietly, voice rough with exhaustion.

My stomach dips. “Your away game?”

He nods. “Yeah. We’re flying out after morning skate. Three games. Back late next week.”

“Okay,” I say, rolling onto my side to mirror him. “Good luck.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, softer, “Thanks, Collins.”

When I close my eyes, it’s the first time I notice how cold the other side of the pillow wall already feels.

This is fake. He’s temporary.

And I absolutely, definitely, should not want him.

The next morning, I wake up relieved to find myself on my own side of the bed. No drool. No sprawling. No photographic evidence of my unconscious crimes against the pillow wall. Progress.

But there’s something sitting on my bedside table.

A neon pink sticky note shaped like a French Bulldog.

Of course.

I sit up and peel it off the lamp.

P —

There’s a delivery coming to the townhouse at two p.m.

Also, I’ve hidden your favorite mug. If you follow the clues, you’ll find a reward.

Good luck.

Love, your boyfriend.

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t pop out of my skull.

He hid my mug?

And signed it “your boyfriend?”

I can practically hear the smirk in his voice as if he were saying it out loud. Dripping with sarcasm. So proud of himself he probably flexed while writing it.

Still…a little something flutters in my stomach. Because he’s not even here—he left early this morning for the road trip—but this? This stupid little scavenger hunt?

It means he thought about me before leaving.

His words from the podcast flicker through my head: “I only prank people I like.”

I throw off my covers with a groan that’s equal parts annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Okay, Reed. Let’s see what kind of nonsense you left behind.”

My feet are barely on the hardwood before I’m heading straight for the kitchen, toward the drying rack by the sink. That’s where my mug lives.

That’s where I always leave it.

Of course, it’s gone.

But another Frenchie sticky note waits in its place, stuck to the faucet.

Cold mornings and your favorite peppermint tea.

You always start your day right here,

but I’m holding your mug hostage.

If you want it back, go check the place

where we turned a heating pad and Thai food into our first truce.

I blink.

The couch.

I jog back to the living room, already grinning.

Another note is under the throw blanket, wedged between the cushions with ruthless accuracy and curled at the edges.

You laughed, you snacked, and you definitely tried to hog the blanket.

But your mug’s not here.

Try the place where I keep things hot...and mildly spicy.

Bonus points if you find leftover noodles.

Oh my god.

The fridge?

I half-sprint back to the kitchen.

I yank open the fridge door. There’s a half-empty container of pad thai shoved in the back—and taped to it?

Another pink note.

Not just leftovers—this is where peace offerings live.

But your mug is still MIA. If you’re desperate,

check the place you go when things get really steamy…

like flat hair and melting mascara steamy.

“Seriously?”

He left a clue in the bathroom?

I tug the bathroom door open and find the note taped to the shampoo bottle like it’s been mocking me all morning.

Not here either. I’m not that cruel.

But you’re so close. You once said this place held all your secrets.

Better check the drawer where your secrets actually live.

Secrets.

My nightstand drawer?

He better not have touched my vibrator.

I pull open the drawer slowly, half-expecting glitter to explode in my face.

No glitter. Just a folded note on top of my usual stash of Advil and emergency chocolate.

Didn’t find what you were looking for? Sorry, sweetheart.

But I left your precious mug somewhere that means something—to you and

me—our first fight. Go where the stories live.

The studio.

I break into a jog down the hall.

There it is.

Sitting front and center on my desk like it owns the place. My white ceramic “Microphones & Mayhem” mug, flanked by my soundboard and the leftover scent of Hunter’s body wash and aftershave from this morning.

Taped to the mug, a note reads:

Turns out I do listen. Don’t get smug.

Your reward’s in the fridge.

And yes, it’s chocolate. Because I’m not a monster.

I’m laughing now, shaking my head as I head back to the fridge.

Inside, tucked behind the takeout, is a glossy red box of truffles.

Another note, this one slightly bent from the condensation.

Consider this your prize for surviving a Hunter Reed scavenger hunt.

Sproutacus says hi. Make sure to talk to him a little while I’m gone. He gets lonely up on the windowsill all alone.

See you soon.

—Your Charming Plant Baby-Daddy

I hold the box and the note in my hands for a second, something warm blooming under my ribs. Because yeah, this is fake. It’s all fake.

But for a minute? It doesn’t feel that way.

Not even a little.

At exactly two twenty-five p.m., there’s a knock at the door.

I pause mid-bite of truffle, still half-lounging on the couch in my pajama pants and fuzzy socks. The scavenger hunt had completely erased any memory of the delivery note.

When I open the door, two guys in branded polos are waiting on the porch with a clipboard and a moving truck behind them.

“We’re here to deliver the bed,” one says, friendly but professional. “Mr. Reed asked us to set it up and move the old one to your garage.”

“Deliver the…bed?” I blink. “What bed?”

He hands me the clipboard. And there it is.

Hunter Reed. King-size custom pillow top. The price tag makes my jaw drop.

The second guy’s already unlocking the truck.

“He bought me a bed?” I whisper to myself.

No.

He bought us a bed.

I blink again, scanning the absurd number. Who spends that much on a mattress?

“Uh, yeah—come in,” I say quickly, stepping back. “Let me strip the bedding first.”

The guy nods and heads to help unload while I half-jog back to the bedroom, still reeling.

I pull the comforter off in a daze.

He bought me—no, us—a bigger bed.

And not just any bed. A ridiculous, luxury, custom, king-size bed.

Hunter freaking Reed.

What am I supposed to do with that?