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Sophie shook her head. “Ame. This idea isn’t just perfect. It’s about twenty years overdue.” She set down her mug and leaned forward, arms folded on the table in front of her. “I bet if you take Mr. Dungeons & Dragons over there to your cousin’s wedding, your great aunt Brunhilda will never give you grief again about being single.”
I laughed. “I don’t have a great aunt Brunhilda.”
“Cousin Brunhilda, then,” Sophie said with a dismissive wave of her hand.
I shook my head, amused, and then snuck another look at the guy reading his magazine just as he was setting it down.
His blue eyes met mine.
All at once, and with a dizzy sensation I usually associated with roller coasters or giving presentations in front of a large crowd, I recognized him.
It was Mr. Fedora Asshole from the night before.
It had been dark when he’d run into me, and his hat had cast most of his face in shadow. He’d traded the strange outfit from earlier for the more conventional clothing he wore right now. But there was no question that this was the same man.
It was clear he recognized me, too. His eyes widened in surprise, and those full lips of his quirked up at one corner. After another moment, his eyes flitted away again.
He began writing furiously in his journal.
He’d told me he owed me one for helping him. He probably hadn’t meant it, but the fact that he’d offered might make him more inclined to say yes to this.
If I asked him to help me.
Sophie cleared her throat.
Shit. I was staring at him. I quickly whipped my head around to face her.
“So since you’re definitely doing this—” she began.
“I have decided no such thing.”
“—let’s set up some criteria for Mr. Pretend,” Sophie continued, as if I hadn’t interrupted her. “To help you decide who to pick from among yourdozensof options.”
I ignored the jibe. Because lists were good. Carefully considered criteria helped people make well-reasoned decisions. The only problem was, I had no idea where to start.
“What do you think should be on the list?” I asked, feeling more foolish than I’d ever felt before.
“I’m so happy you asked.” Sophie pulled out a yellow legal pad from her bag and wroteCRITERIA FOR FAKE BOYFRIENDin large capital letters at the top. “Let’s start easy. I assume you don’t want to take someone to this wedding who’s been convicted for a violent crime they actually committed.”
I blinked at her. “Correct.”
“Not…a…violent…felon,” Sophie said, jotting it down. “Got it. Next question. How old should he be?”
I thought about that. “Maybe mid-to-late thirties? If he’s too young and impressionable, it could get weird. But if he’s too much older than me, that could be weird, too.”
“That makes sense,” she agreed. “Also, someone who’s too young and still believes in love or whatever might fall in love with you.”
I snorted. Sophie had been married for almost ten years and was as in love with her husband today as she was when they met in college. She definitely stillbelieved in love or whatever. Her willingness to play along with my cynical attitude just went to show what a good friend she was.
“No one is going to fall in love with me,” I said.
“You don’t know that,” Sophie countered. “These fake dating schemes lead to real love all the time.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” she said. “I’ve read about it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Where?”
