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“This is impressive.”
“Right on the beach. Best decision I ever made. Get buried in a brief? I kick off my shoes and walk right out the door to put my toes in the sand. If I’m feeling extra stressed, I jump in.”
“You just randomly jump in the ocean?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
She stood there for a moment, just watching the waves. She seemed lost for just a few seconds. The ocean relaxed her. It relaxed everyone, which was why oceanfront property was the dream that only the rich could afford.
“Wine?” I asked. “I’ve got a nice selection. Red, white, rosé if you’re feeling fancy.”
She turned away from the view. “You have any beer?”
I blinked. “Beer?”
“Yeah. You know, hops, barley, comes in bottles or cans?”
“I know what beer is. I just didn’t peg you for a beer drinker.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Blackwell.”
“Touche.”
I headed back downstairs to the kitchen, Darcy trailing behind me. I opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles of a local craft IPA I’d picked up last week. I popped the caps and handed one to her.
She took a long pull, her eyes closing briefly in what looked like genuine appreciation. “Good choice.”
“I have excellent taste.”
“In beer, maybe. The jury’s still out on everything else.”
I grabbed the tray of appetizers I’d ordered earlier. Nothing fancy, just some bruschetta, a cheese board, and those little caprese skewers that caterers always seemed to include. Snacky stuff. The kind of food that said I’d put in effort without screaming I was trying too hard. A meal would have made it feel like a date.
I wasn’t trying too hard. It was just standard hospitality.
“Come on,” I said, jerking my head toward the stairs. “Let’s go enjoy that view while we figure out how not to destroy each other’s lives.”
We settled onto the balcony furniture, the ocean breeze carrying the salt-and-seaweed smell I loved. It could get fishy at times, but the briny smell was comforting. Darcy stretched her legs out, resting her feet on the footstool. She looked relaxed. The beer was already half gone. Most women I’d gone out with sipped beer while making the sour-lemon face.
“So,” she said, picking up a piece of bruschetta. “Fake dating.”
“Fake dating,” I confirmed. “What are you thinking?”
She chewed slowly, considering. “I don’t date much. Real or otherwise, so I have zero clue how this works.”
“I gathered.”
She scowled at me but there was no real heat. She reached for a chunk of goat cheese. “I’ve seen the speculation online. Everyone’s talking about us.”
“Everyone loves a good romance.”
“It’s not a romance. It’s a PR strategy.”
I grabbed a slice of prosciutto.
“The distraction is working,” she went on. “People are more interested in whether we’re actually together than in whether I’m capable of human emotion. It’ll be better for business. Better than being a monster incapable of love trying to push romance on her customers.”
