Page 6 of Winging It with You
Why didn’t I lead with the prize money? “It’s quite a lot,” I say, remembering how animated Clint was when he relayed the details to me all those months ago. “This is actually the show’s twenty-fifth anniversary, so they’ve doubled the pot.”
“To how much?” Theo asks, his eyebrow raising with intrigue.
“ One million dollars ,” I whisper, and I’m not entirely sure why. It’s not some secret that’s going to get me killed if the wrong person is within earshot.
Theo blinks. “And…we’d split that?”
“Oh my gosh, of course! If we were to win, I would absolutely split the lump sum with you.”
His gears are turning, and I make a mental note to remind myself that if he agrees to this, I want to ask him what he’d use his half of the money for.
“Alright, guapo,” he says casually, like I’m someone who’s used to being called that by an actual handsome stranger on a recurring basis. “Last question.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, trying, and I’m sure miserably failing, to remain calm at his compliment.
“What are we ?” he asks, eyeing me with suspicion. Oh, he absolutely knows what we would be and he’s probably just wanting to hear me say it out loud.
I clear my throat, nervous how he’s going to react to this oddly specific detail, because honestly, if it were me? I’d run.
“They’re expecting me to compete with my boyfriend.”
No reaction.
Nothing.
My palms begin to sweat as I wait for him to say something. Anything.
“Which I know is ridiculously unrealistic considering we just met so I completely understand if you—” I’m pretty sure several people turn their heads in our direction as the near-hysteria rising in my voice echoes through the cabin.
“Boyfriend, huh?” he interrupts, finally speaking. He removes his hand from my knee and I am a little too aware of its absence. “I could be your boyfriend.”
I repeat his words over and over again in my mind.
I could be your boyfriend.
Theo says it like he’s being asked to shift plans ever so slightly—instead of getting Italian for dinner, he’s fine with getting Thai. Or like a longtime friend called asking if they could meet up for coffee on Sunday morning instead of Saturday afternoon.
Like he’s the most agreeable human on this planet and being asked to be a stranger’s fake boyfriend is a regular occurrence in his life and not some huge, cringe-worthy ordeal, as my rising blood pressure would lead you to believe.
“Why?” I ask, completely suspicious about what kind of person would willingly involve themselves in something like this.
Theo bites his lower lip, a sign that he’s thinking or, under different circumstances, perhaps an invitation—either way, he says, “Let’s just say you caught me on a good day.”
“I’m serious,” I press.
“So am I.” Theo slides more comfortably into his seat, his legs invading my space. “You want to know what Mark and I were talking about before I came over and—”
“—you tried to steal my snack?” I interject.
He groans. “More like politely offered to buy your snack, but if you want to hold that grudge, that’s fine, I guess.
” Theo laughs, a rich, throaty sound, and when he does, his entire face lights up.
“Anyway, before the whole mozzarella stick debacle, Mark was telling me how I needed to do something spontaneous. To shake up my life a little bit and step outside my comfort zone.” His gaze lowers to his phone resting in his lap. “In fact, work demands it.”
Now I’m the one leaning forward. “Meaning?”
He straightens in his seat, perhaps uncomfortable being put on the spot by a stranger, and right then, I see the smallest crack forming in the charming facade I was initially introduced to.
“Let’s just say I haven’t been the best at maintaining a healthy work-life balance and leave it at that for now. ”
I’m intrigued, but if he is telling the truth, this whole thing would almost be too serendipitous.
“This is very unlike me, and this whole thing may just be a disaster waiting to happen,” he says, which feels like the understatement of the century.
“But I’ve got the time, and unless I missed the long line of volunteers begging to be your partner…
” he says and places a hand to his forehead as he theatrically scans the nearby passengers.
I slow-blink at his poorly timed sarcasm, but I can’t ignore the fact that he’s right. This handsome stranger sitting next to me seems to be my only viable option if I’m going to go forward with this whole thing.
“If you’re in, I’m in.”
I don’t know why, but I trust the sudden seriousness in his voice. Every instinct of mine is screaming that this is crazy, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me that makes me feel like I can trust him.
Or he’s just exceptionally good at pretending.
“What do you say, Asher Bennett? Shall we?” Theo offers his hand and the same smile I was met with at the bar returns to his face.
This is it—the now-or-never moment that just might be a defining one for my sanity. Are we doing this? Pretending to be boyfriends after a fifteen-minute conversation and knowing absolutely nothing about each other?
Fuck it.
Seriously, fuck everything about it. After today, what more do I have to lose?
I take his big and firm and surprisingly soft hand in mine. His smile widens, and I think the sight of it rushes all my blood to my head.
Or maybe this is just the Theo Fernandez Effect.
We shake, and when he returns my hand, the warmth of his touch still crackling over my palm like a flame refusing to be extinguished, he leans back in his seat and we continue our ascent.
He’s charming. Charming and direct and very obviously gorgeous and seemingly up for anything, at least far more than I am, which feels like a dangerous combination if you ask me.
He seems like a good time.
And I could use a good time after the day I’ve had.
Like him, this just might be the most spontaneous and out-of-character thing I’ve ever done.
I’m terrified and my insides feel like they are melting from stress or unexpected excitement or maybe even a genuine fear that all this—my life and Theo and the fact that I am so far out of my comfort zone here it’s bordering on hysterical—is going to tragically implode around me with all of America watching.