Page 7 of Bullied Pretend Mate (Silverville Firefighter Wolves #3)

I’m in high school again, and this is a dream I know well.

Anticipation builds as I walk down the hallway, which is mostly dark and empty. Bays of blue lockers loom on either side of me, some of them decorated with pictures and little clippings. A janitor’s cart sits pushed to the side of the hallway ahead of me.

I’m heading to see my group—the group of girls I’ve been meeting with for weeks now. Outside the windows, the snow is melting, and we’re just on the cusp of tipping into weather that is warmer than not.

As usual, I’m wearing something unflattering, a too-big sweatshirt and pants, which make me sweat.

My mountain of curls sticks to my forehead and the back of my neck, and as much as I want to pull them up on top of my head to relieve the heat, I know it’s just going to expose my neck and the top of my back, which I’m also insecure about.

The longer I walk, the more the anticipation builds. Teenage Maeve may not know about it, but I’ve seen this entire scene a million times before.

Just like every time, and just like what really happened, when I pass the bay of drinking fountains on the right, Felix’s arm darts out and grabs my bicep, hauling me into an alcove, his face bright and mischievous as he looks down at me.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, fear and adrenaline pumping through me at the contact with him.

He clamps his hand down over my mouth, looking left and right. “I thought it was you,” he says breathlessly. “I didn’t know you were back.”

But that’s not right—he’s not following the script. This is usually when he tells me that he has Lachlan’s car keys and he’s trying to hide from him.

I try to speak, but I can’t through the hand he has over my mouth. This isn’t how Felix typically treats me at school. At best, he’s apathetic, and at worst, he’s joining in with the other guys to make fun of me.

Making it totally clear that even though we were friends in grade school, we definitely are not friends now.

But in this alcove, with his hand over my mouth and his body boxing mine against the wall, both of us breathing quick and shallow, it’s different.

This is the first time in a whole year that he’s looked at me like he used to. Back when we were Felix and Maeve, Maeve and Felix, just two friends hanging out. Him getting into trouble, me getting him out of it.

“Shit,” Felix murmurs, his eyes finding mine, and this time, he is back on script, saying, “I wonder if Lachlan went outside.”

This is when I realize that the Felix standing in front of me is not teenage Felix with the spattering of facial hair and newly deep voice, like what my dreams usually give me. Usually, this dream is an exact recreation of the moment. Whether it’s meant as a nicety or to be haunting, I don’t know.

But this time, it’s different. Instead of pre-eighteen Felix standing in front of me, it’s adult Felix. The one who was in the elevator with me.

And he’s looking down at me, his eyes flitting between my eyes and mouth, leaning in, almost like he can’t help himself. It’s like what happened back then, but with an updated model.

Teenage Maeve didn’t know any better—but I’m not teenage Maeve. I’m me, and I know better.

But this is just a dream.

It’s just a dream , I tell myself when he finally makes contact, his lips against mine, his hand snaking around behind my back, pulling me in so our chests smash together, forcing the breath from my lungs.

It’s just a dream, but Dream Felix is cupping my ass in his hands, lifting me up, kissing me deeper and deeper as my legs wrap around his waist. I didn’t know anyone could pick me up like this, didn’t know a man could hold me the way he might hold a lighter woman.

But Felix moans into my mouth, his hands squeezing my ass, his posture sure and easy like holding me here is the easiest thing in the world.

And when I feel him start to get hard against me, I realize where this dream is going. If I let myself go down this path—further beyond something more than just a teenage make-out session—it’s only going to get worse.

When I wake up, coming out of the dream in a start, I’m gasping, my legs tight together, my core clenched in anticipation. I resist the urge for a long moment, then finally give in, letting my hand snake down, my head falling back as I think of Felix—his strong arms, his possessive touch.

The way he kissed me in that dream. A way that I will never get to have in real life.

***

I’m just stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around myself when my phone starts to ring, the ringtone a loud, upbeat pop song. Normally, it makes me feel happy, but right now, for some reason, it sends a little pang of dread through my body.

The bathroom is hazy, floating with the scent of the rosewater body wash I fell in love with, only sold by a little apothecary back in California. Buying handmade soaps is just one of the things I started doing to take care of myself and individualize my life.

My phone rings again in a second round of the song, and I hurry as fast as I can go without slipping on the wet tile.

“It’s fine,” I mutter to myself, crossing the floor and grabbing my phone. “It’s fine.”

It’s probably nothing. Maybe just someone back in L.A.

calling to see how I’m doing. Other than the photos I posted when I first got to this rental, I haven’t been online much.

Maybe they think I disappeared or was kidnapped.

If that gang is still running around in Silverville, I wouldn’t even put that possibility off the table.

“Maeve Villareal speaking,” I answer, a habit my mother instilled in me when I was a kid. Always introduce yourself when you answer the phone.

“Hi, Maeve.” The voice on the other end of the line is warm, enthusiastic. “This is Kelly. I’d emailed you before—I’m from the Hollerand merchandising department?”

I open my mouth, but it’s like my throat has stopped working.

Hollerand, an upscale department store dealing in everything you might want to buy—groceries, home goods, auto, and outdoors.

Over the past ten years, they’ve invested heavily in their clothing department, and recently, people have started to think of them as a good option for affordable yet cute clothing.

“Maeve? Are you there?”

“Yes,” I say, too quickly. “Sorry, yes, I am here. It’s so good to hear from you.”

“And I’m so glad that you were able to get on the line today. Do you have a minute to chat?”

I’m still in my towel, hair dripping down my back, but I hurry into the main living space, the bed undone from my fretful sleep the night before, clothes thrown over the back of the armchair.

I’m normally a tidy person, but when I got home last night, the only thing I wanted was to get that stupid gown off my body.

“Yes, of course,” I say, muting the phone to hide the rustling sound of me digging my laptop out of my bag. A second later, I’m perched on the bed, still mostly naked, my towel damp under my ass, as Kelly talks.

“Great. I’m calling because we got your proposal this morning, and we love your stuff!”

I have my hands poised above the keyboard to take notes, and I freeze at this information, my body already starting to react to the news—they loved my stuff.

“We’ve been wanting to invest in a more permanent plus-sized inventory, and we think a collaboration between our brands could be a big hit.”

“That’s great,” I say, then realize I’m still on hold. I hit the button and say, “I think so, too! That’s great to hear.”

“So, the next steps for us—we’re going to want a couple of sample pieces sent out, let’s say five of your top designs, in eight different colorways? How does that sound?”

It sounds expensive. I only buy organic, fair-trade fabrics, and creating that many pieces is going to be thousands of dollars. I’ll need a new sewing machine to keep up. And that’s not even mentioning the fact that I still need to drive back to California and find the time to sew each piece.

And they all have to be my best work.

“That sounds great,” I say, because what else am I going to say? After gaining a following online for my plus-size fashion influencing, my next dream was always to find a way to sell my clothes so other fat girls could feel good in their bodies, too.

And getting them into Hollerand? Obviously, there’s money to be made, but it’s more about the fact that a teenager like me might walk into the store and see clothes that might actually fit on her body.

“Wonderful,” she says, then goes on to rattle off more information she assures me she’ll be emailing over as well.

When I get off the phone, I sit on the edge of the bed in my towel, body buzzing from this reality.

I have to find a way to get that money.

Ten minutes later, the paralysis has passed, and I’m sitting in front of the mirror, drying my hair, a plan already forming in my head.

I know what I have to do. It goes against every instinct I have, but I’m tired of playing it safe. Moving out to California was about running away, at first, but I took that energy and turned it into running toward something instead.

And I managed to turn that into a sizable following online. It only makes sense that I keep this ball rolling. I won’t let a lack of funds cut me off from following this dream.

When I’m finished with my hair, I do a quick face of makeup and slide into a short pink dress, admiring myself in the mirror before I take a deep breath, grab my bag, and make for the door.

I’m going to find Felix. See if he’s still willing to play my fake mate.

I get my answer when I throw open the front door, and Felix Rana is standing on the porch, his fist raised, his mouth slightly open.

“Oh,” he says, dropping his fist, his eyes dropping to my lips. “Hey.”