Page 30 of Scoring Chance

“How close?” I ask.

“Married close.” She puts a hand on her hip.

Des wraps his arm around my waist. His hand rests on my side, firm and casual and way too familiar. I can smell his cologne—clean, woodsy, expensive.

I look up at him.

He’s already looking at me.

And not in that smirky, smug way he usually does. It’s soft. Studying. Like he’s trying to see something that isn’t quite visible yet.

It hits me like a sucker punch: we’ve been pretending so hard, I forgot what it feels like to be really looked at.

I swallow.

Dean’s voice cuts through the tension. “You guys gonna kiss or what?”

Des huffs a laugh, not taking his eyes off me. “Sorry, Agent Thunder. This one’s PG.”

The shutter clicks.

We step apart. The room suddenly feels too warm.

Des heads to the kitchen like nothing happened. He claps his hands twice. “Dinnertime! Let’s eat!”

He stands with the kids hovering over the leftovers and begins spooning food onto their plates. I watch for a second longer, rubbing my arms against the goosebumps.

And wondering how many more pictures like that I can take before this whole fake marriage starts to feel a little too real.

10

DES

Ican’t remember the last time I had a home cooked meal. My dinners usually consist of take-out, hip restaurants, or office snacks on extra late nights. The kitchen in my apartment is pristine simply because it’s rarely been used. There are no food smells in my domicile.

But here I am. In a suburban dining room that smells faintly of pasta and Crayola markers.

The kids swarm around their plates like little velociraptors. I don’t know all their table dynamics yet, but I can already tell that sitting down for a calm family meal here is as likely as getting a workable family picture.

Dean and Davy are circling the table like it’s a battlefield.

“I’m sitting next to Des!” Dean declares, practically leaping over a chair.

“No, I want to,” Davy argues, folding his arms with the gravitas of a tenured attorney.

“Dad!” They both yell at Tanner.

“Boys,” Tanner says with a warning tone, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “It’s a table, not a throne. Just sit down and eat before the lasagna gets cold.”

I should intervene. I’m their fake stepdad now, after all. Unlike previous situations where two people have fought over me, this can’t be resolved with a three-way.

“It’s fine,” I offer, trying for a diplomatic tone. “We can rotate. Tonight I’ll sit next to Dean, and tomorrow I’ll sit next to Davy.”

Dean beams. Davy makes a face. Compromise. Beautiful in theory. Absolute garbage in execution.

As soon as I sit, Dean shimmies so close that we’re basically sharing a thigh. He’s mid-story about how he got in trouble for making fart noises during math when—boom—his elbow knocks over his glass of orange soda, which sails directly into my lap.

I suck in a breath as the cold citrus sticks to my jeans—or rather Tanner’s jeans that I’m borrowing. They may not be the designer ones I’m used to, but they don’t deserve to be covered in orange carbonated sugar.