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Claire sat in Noah’s passenger seat, in the parking lot of the venue. “Remember the rules,” she told him sternly.

“Right. Flirt with you constantly, touching is necessary, overuse pet names, and develop real feelings.” He grinned at her.

She glared at him. “Don’t make me change my mind.”

“Relax, I’m kidding.” He looked at her. “Seriously, I know I already said it, but you look really pretty.”

“That’s not one of the rules,” she muttered, getting out of the car. He just laughed.

“I’m so nervous,” she admitted as they were walking inside.

“Would it help if I held your hand?”

“Absolutely not.” She stopped for a moment. “Fine.”

Noah smiled and reached for her hand. His fingers closed around hers, warm and easy, like he had done it a hundred times before. His thumb brushed across her knuckles, probably without thought.

Claire noticed anyway.

The contact sent a strange little current up her arm.

Her heart dropped into her stomach.

What was wrong with her? It wasn’t like her fake date holding her hand was the most intimate contact she had ever had with a man.

Okay, yes, technically it was.

But still.

So what if his palm was warm? So what if her hand fit annoyingly well in his? So what if she suddenly became aware of every place their fingers touched?

It meant nothing.

She hated that it felt like it might.

This was probably a terrible idea.

“We need a story,” Claire whispered as they entered.

“We have one. What happened to no improvising?”

“Our real story involves you stealing my dinner.”

“Exactly. It’s memorable.”

“It makes you sound like a criminal.”

“A charming criminal.”

“Noah.”

“Relax, princess. I’ll leave out the part where you threatened me.”

Her stomach flipped.

Claire hated these kinds of events.

Too much smiling. Too many name tags. Too many people asking her what she “likes to do for fun” like she had time for hobbies.