5. Fake, But Dangerous

Catherine’s POV

It’s New Year.

Everyone else looks bright and hopeful.

Me?

I’m two weeks deep in silent suffering, replaying the almost-happened scene at the Grand Palace Hotel with Clinton.

Twice a day.

Minimum.

Honestly, if God hadn’t given me legs to sprint like a panicked cartoon character out of that hotel room, I…

Nope. Not finishing that thought.

My face still burns just remembering it.

And Danny…

Danny hasn’t called. Not once. Not even a sad, half-hearted Happy New Year text. I’m starting to suspect I’ve been erased from his life like a deleted file.

School resumes tomorrow.

I should be over it. Cry, heal, move on. Blah blah blah.

Instead, I’m sitting at the kitchen table with a spoon frozen halfway to my mouth, cereal soggy and depressing, when my phone buzzes.

My heart betrays me immediately.

I grab the phone.

Clinton.

“What?” I blurt.

No hello. No caution. No dignity.

On the other end, his voice is calm. Confident. Like he never disappeared for two whole weeks and left my brain in emotional shambles.

“Be ready in thirty minutes,” he says. “We’re going shopping.”

I sit up so fast my chair screeches.

“Shopping?” I hiss. “Are you insane? You disappear for two weeks, ghost me like some soap-opera villain, and now you just…what…snap your fingers and expect me to come running?”

There’s a pause. Not the awkward kind. The deliberate kind.

Then he chuckles…soft, low, warm.

God, I hate that sound.

“You missed me.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“Mmm.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “That’s not what your tone says.”

I scowl at my cereal. “I don’t have time for this.”

“You do,” he replies smoothly. “You’re just pretending you don’t.”

I open my mouth to argue.

He cuts in gently, “Thirty minutes, Hopkins.”

The call ends.

I stare at my phone.

…Did he just hang up on me?

I groan and drop my forehead onto the table.

My life officially belongs to Clinton Blunt.

---

Thirty minutes later, a sleek black sports car pulls up outside the convenience store where I work.

I gave him this address because my house is a mess. And honestly, the fewer people who see my sad life, the better.

Clinton steps out.

And oh.

That’s unfair.

Sunglasses. Dark jacket. Hair perfectly messy in that I didn’t try but I definitely did way. He leans against the car like he owns the street.

My stomach does something it has no business doing.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, lips curving. “You look alive again.”

“Wow,” I deadpan. “Happy New Year to you too.”

He grins. “Good to see you sober. But honestly, I liked you better drunk.”

“Drunk? Me?”

“You don’t remember, do you?”

What the hell is he talking about?

“I’m always sober,” I frown.

“Relax. I mean that in a good way.”

I climb into the passenger seat, folding my arms. “Why are you here?”

“Because you need it,” he says, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“I don’t need you.”

He starts the engine and glances at me. “You keep saying that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

I glare out the window. “Stop flirting.”

“Can’t. Occupational hazard.”

---

At the mall, he walks like the building was named after him. Girls stare. One waves.

He waves back.

I scowl. “Do you enjoy being annoying?”

“Only when you react like that.”

“I’m not reacting.”

“You’re reacting beautifully.”

Inside a boutique, a woman practically sprints toward him.

“Mr. Blunt! Welcome back!”

His arm slips around my shoulders…casual, light, possessive.

My body freezes.

“I need your best work,” he says. “She’s my girlfriend.”

My brain seizes like it’s been short-circuited.

“I’m WHAT?”

I glance at him, searching for a hint that this is a joke. There isn’t one.

The woman squeals. “Oh, how adorable!”

Before I can escape, assistants swarm me like fashion-hungry bees. Dresses shoved into my arms. Shoes thrown at my feet. Someone nearly stabs me with a mascara wand.

“This is a crime,” I mutter.

From the couch, Clinton grins. “You look cute when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You’re lying again.”

---

When I step out in the dress he chose, the room goes quiet.

Clinton doesn’t say anything at first.

He just looks.

Slowly. Thoroughly.

My pulse jumps. “What?”

He exhales softly. “Yeah. You’re trouble.”

He stands, walks toward me, and hands me a sleek black dress. “Try this one.”

I sigh and head back to the fitting room. When I come out, he freezes. Then his eyes sneak…lower.

My cheeks go nuclear. “Clinton!” I cross my arms over my chest.

He smirks. “Relax. I was just admiring the fabric. Very… form-fitting.”

“You were looking at my boobs!”

“They’re cute. Small but cute.”

“EXCUSE ME?!”

He raises his hands. “Relax. I’m teasing.”

“You’re a menace.”

“A sweet one.”

I turn away, flustered.

He reaches for my wrist…gentle, barely there.

My breath stutters. Every nerve in my body suddenly awake.

I jerk back instinctively.

His expression softens, not in offense, just… something warmer.

I want to tell myself I’m imagining it, but I know I’m not.

“Hey. I won’t cross lines you don’t want crossed.”

“Good,” I mutter. “Because I don’t like you.”

He leans closer anyway. Just enough for me to feel his warmth.

“I know,” he whispers. “That’s why you keep arguing.”

My heart thumps violently.

“You’re delusional.”

“Maybe.” He smiles. “But you still blush every time I look at you.”

I hate that he’s right.

---

Outside, he takes my hand once more.

I protest instantly. “Don’t.”

“We’re fake dating, remember?”

“Not in public yet,” I snap. “Only my boyfriend can hold my hand.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them.

He stills.

Slowly, he turns to look at me. Not teasing. Not smug.

“Boyfriend?” he repeats quietly. “You mean the one who cheated?”

My chest tightens. I look away, hoping he won’t notice. Too late…he notices.

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “Maybe it’s time you stop saving space for someone who didn’t deserve it.”

A couple passes us. The girl whispers, “They’re cute.”

I choke.

Clinton grins like he won something.

“You enjoy this way too much.”

“I enjoy you pretending you don’t,” he says, then tilts his head. “Just don’t fall in love with me, Hopkins.”

“I’d rather fall off a cliff.”

“Good,” he says softly. “Because if you do…”

He pauses. Smiles.

“…you’ll jump on your own.”

My heart does something stupid.

Before I can answer, his hand lifts to his chest like something sharp just struck him from the inside.

“Clinton… you okay?”

He pauses. Then he straightens, the smile snapping back into place like armor.

“I will be,” he says lightly, “when I find the bastard who did this to me.”

I blink. “Did what?”

He smirks, hiding something darker underneath. “Come on, Hopkins. Don’t start worrying. It’s adorable…but unnecessary.”

I don’t push.

I don’t know why.

As we drive off, he glances at me.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “we’ll make our debut. And trust me, Hopkins, the whole school won’t know what hit them.”

I grin despite myself. “Let’s make him jealous.”

He beams. “That’s my girl.”

And for one dangerously thrilling second… I forget it’s all fake.

Then he leans closer, just enough for my pulse to spike, and whispers, “Try not to fall for me before tomorrow.”

A spark shoots straight to my chest. My brain screams, danger, danger, but my body… my body doesn’t care.

I know I’m in trouble. And somehow, impossibly, I like it.