Page 45 of Blue Line

Weston chats with Max while I read over the menu, although I don’t take in most of what I’m reading because I’m worried that I’ll say or do the wrong thing and give away that Weston and I are fake. When our server returns with our drinks, I take a big gulp of my wine, needing the liquid courage.

Max tells us to act naturally as he peers through his camera lens, ready to take a few more pictures. Weston reaches across the table for my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before peering down at his menu. My heart hammers in my chest as I try to ignore the camera, focusing instead on Weston’s warm hand wrapped around mine.

“How about we toast?” Weston asks, turning to Max once he tells us he’s done. “You good with that?”

“Yeah, that’ll be a great photo. Mind if I get a video of it too? We’ll mute the sound and add music over it, so don’t worry about saying anything.”

“Fine with me,” I say, and Weston nods.

I grab my wine glass, lifting it to clink with Weston’s, and turn to face the camera. My hands shake a little, and I really hope it’s not noticeable. Max takes a few photos first, and then directs us to put our glasses down and start our toast all over again so that he can capture it on video. We do as he says. I really hope we’re convincing. Max seems to think so as he thanks us for our time, then leaves us to enjoy our meal, saying he’ll meet up with us at the end of the night.

“You okay?” Weston asks when we’re alone.

“I’m fine.” I take another sip from my wine as he watches me. “Fine. I’m nervous.”

His expression softens. “Why? Do you not want to eat here? We can go somewhere else …”

I shake my head. “It’s not the restaurant. Well, not really. It’s more having to pretend for the camera. And being on a date with you.” I grimace, and his expression falls. I put up a hand. “No, wait, that came out wrong.” He tilts his head, studying me. “I just meant aside from Henry’s party, we haven’t done anything this fancy or formal together. We hang out at your place or get takeout. Not that I’m complaining. I just …” I fiddle with my wine glass.

“Oh.” He blows out a breath. “Pretend we’re just out for tacos.”

I tap my finger against the menu. “These aren’t taco prices.”

“Fair enough. There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just you and me.”

And that’s another reason why I’m nervous. We keep spending more and more time together, and I find myself liking it. Falling more for the man across the table from me. And that’s dangerous.

“Did you decide what you want to eat?” He picks up his menu.

“Nope.” I read the menu again, and this time I’m able to focus on the words in front of me.

“Okay,” I say a few minutes later. “I’m getting the eight-ounce center-cut filet. What about you?”

“I was thinking the same thing, but the twelve-ounce. Do you want to share a few sides?”

“Sounds good.”

We debate what sides to order and eventually settle on bacon and cheddar mashed potatoes, sautéed broccoli, and fresh asparagus. I lose the argument for also getting the lobster mac and cheese. The waiter comes back, and we put in our order.

“Did I do good?” Weston asks once we’re alone again.

I crinkle my brow at him, finishing my glass of wine. “Do good?”

“I wasn’t sure where to take you on our first date.”

Is he blushing?

“This is perfect, Weston. Although you know it’s not real …”

He shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. “It needed to appear real.”

I take in the private room we’re in, hearing the faint hum of classical music streaming in along with the sounds of other patrons talking and utensils clinking in the dining room. “I think it does.”

“We should take a selfie,” he suggests, pulling out his phone. “I’ll share it on social media and tag you.”

“Good idea.”

He moves his chair closer to me and drapes his arm around me. I smile at the camera, all the while trying not to think about how good it feels to have him touching me. We’ve hugged—I know what it’s like to touch him. So why does this feel like more? I push the thought away. It’s neither here nor there. This is just fake. We’re fake. We’re friends but nothing more. We can never be anything more.