“So, exposure therapy, but for fake dating?”
“Exactly.” He clicks again.
The next slide readsPhase One: Casual Public Interactions.
I’m trying not to smile, but I’m failing. This overly structured, analytical approach is so opposite to how he kissed me yesterday. But it’s also sweet that he’s put this much thought into protecting our friendship.
“So, what does Phase One involve?”
“Coffee together. We’re doing that now. Walking through town. Grocery shopping. Normal couple things, but low stakes.”
“You want to practice grocery shopping with me?”
“Do I put my hand on your back while we walk? Do you hold the cart, or do I? These are things actual couples know without thinking.”
Our knees are still touching, and I can feel the warmth of him through my jeans. “You’ve thought this through.”
“I couldn’t sleep.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up more. “That kiss … Jules, I don’t want to screw this up. Our friendship, I mean. This situation. Whatever this is.”
My heart pounds hard in my chest. “Me neither.”
“So … practice?”
“In front of the whole town?”
“That’s kind of the point, right? Being seen together? Making it believable so Craig gives up.”
He’s right.
“Where do we start?”
“Right here with the steps I’ve laid out in my very professional presentation.”
I laugh, and the tension breaks. “You’re such a dork.”
“You appreciate it.”
“I do,” I admit.
He closes the laptop, then reaches over and takes my hand. His thumb strokes across my palm, and my breath catches.
“Too much?”
“It’s perfect.” The words come out softer than I intend.
We sit here in my tiny office, holding hands, knees touching, and it feels more intimate than yesterday’s kiss. Maybe because we’re choosing this, deliberately and privately crossing lines we drew.
“This is weird,” he says.
“So weird.”
“Want to get weirder?”
“Always.”
He grins. “Come grocery shopping with me after your shift. Riverside cabin has nothing but wine and cheese.”
“Very bachelor of you.”
