Chapter 5

Hannah

"Honey, I'm home," I call out, tossing my keys into the bowl.

It's been four days since I did the single craziest, most spontaneous, thing I've ever done in my twenty-five years on this planet.

I. Proposed. To Culver.

I still can't believe I did that.

And it wasn't just a casual, 'Hey, let's do this thing so you can score an inheritance.'

No.

I dropped to my knee, and I proposed in front of almost his entire family.

It was a moment of temporary insanity for sure, but I don't regret it for a second. In fact, I'm proud of myself.

If I'd thought about it—or, as I'm prone to do, overthought it—I wouldn't have done it.

It was rash.

Impulsive.

Completely embarrassing.

In other words, a totally un-me thing to do.

And that's what I love about it.

It's the first un-me thing I've done in a very long time. I didn't have to factor in the kids, or my work schedule, or anyone or anything else. I got an impulse and went for it, and I'm glad I did.

His stunned expression, with eyes wide and mouth hanging open, will always stay with me. Did he think I was crazy? Was he trying to come up with a nice way to break it to me that he thought I was crazy?

I'll never know because he simply smiled, dimples and all, and said the only word that mattered.

Yes.

That's what I hoped he'd say because I want Culver to have that money.

The way I see it, this is karma shining a light on him. Good people deserve to have good things happen to them, and inheriting his grandfather's money will set him up for life and more than make up for what he lost when his friends ripped him off.

And okay, sure, there is the teeny tiiiny matter of getting to be Culver's wife.

Fake wife.

For a little while.

Because let's be honest—this is the closest I'm going to get. Culver is the total package, perfect husband material, so it's only a matter of time until he gets snapped up.

I mean, what's a hot girl summer without a fake marriage to your best friend slash man of your dreams who you're secretly in love with?

I am all in on my new mantra—if it feels good, do it.

And this feels good, so I'm doing it.

It's as simple as that.

"Culver?" I yell out, stepping out of my shoes and wandering into the kitchen.

It's empty, but there's sauce simmering on the stove top. I pick a spoon from the drawer and help myself to a bite.

Mmm.

My eyes slide shut, overwhelmed by the delectable Arrabbiata flavors playing across my tongue. It could very well be his best sauce yet, and believe me, they've been good every night this week.

We've fallen into a comfortable routine.

I come home to a clean house and a delicious aroma in the air.

Side note: after raising two teenagers, that right there is one of life's most underrated pleasures.

He sadly hasn't worn the apron yet, and he quickly changed the topic the two times I mentioned it, so I'm dropping the subject. Clearly, it's not going to happen.

We have dinner, catching each other up on our days, our lives.

He asks about the twins. They're fine. Katie is loving Wyoming. They're heading to Yellowstone National Park in a few days, and thanks to Chester, my knowledge of Dubrovnik Old Town in Croatia went from zero to feeling confident I can handle any trivia question thrown at me about it.

Two nights ago, Culver finally opened up about the results of his latest MRI.

He has a labral tear in his left hip. He called it mild, but seeing the pain it causes him, I'd have to disagree with that assessment.

He and his team have opted for non-surgical treatments at this stage, which include rest and activity management, physical therapy, and pain management. But if his condition deteriorates, arthroscopic surgery will be required.

Despite putting on a brave face and assuring me things will be fine, I can tell he's worried. This has huge implications for his career.

I may not be a hockey fanatic like a certain someone I know, but I've always followed Culver's career closely, from his junior playing days to winning back-to-back Stanley Cups with the Boston Bullets, and the difficult years he spent transferring from club to club before finally landing with the LA Swifts.

The last thing he wants is to lose his spot on the team—or worse, get released from his contract and become a free agent. He runs the risk of not being signed by another team, and given his injuries and age, that could mean the end of his career.

I lick the spoon clean, and as I place it into the sink, I spot Culver.

He's outside.

Taking the laundry off the line.

And he's…oh, my…he's shirtless.

My head turns of its own volition, possibly in slow motion, as I take him in.

He may have a bad hip, but that doesn't mean he's not built like a Greek god, with broad shoulders, massive biceps, sculpted chest, and a tight set of abs that make no sense given how much pasta he eats.

He's tucked his T-shirt into the back of his black shorts and is wearing a lime-green baseball cap, backward, and a matching pair of lime-green Nike Air Jordans. His smooth olive skin glistens in the light.

With AirPods in his ears, he's listening to music. And I know it's music and not a podcast or an audiobook because he's mouthing the lyrics and moving.

No. Not moving.

Dancing.

Sexy dancing.

Sexy, masculine dancing, which I'd normally think is a contradiction in terms unless I was witnessing it right now with my very own eyes.

He unpegs one end of the bedsheet and throws the pegs into the clothespin bag like he's a basketballer making a shot. Then he shimmies his way down to the other side and throws in a few fluid hand gestures before unhooking the other side of the sheet. He does a two-step shuffle back, sings something into his imaginary mic, then proceeds to slide the sheet off the line in one graceful motion.

My heart gallops in my chest, and I jolt back from the window so fast I almost trip over my feet.

I yank a new spoon out of the drawer and feed myself some more sauce because this is one of those I need delicious food situations.

I close my eyes, but all I can taste is the delicious sauce, all I can see is how low those shorts hang off his narrow hips, and all I can imagine is running my hands all over that smooth, glistening torso—and nope.

I open my eyes and shake my head.

This is not helping. In fact, this is the opposite of helping.

Frustrated, and with my skin vibrating in a way I'm not used to, I toss the spoon into the sink and decide to get changed out of my work clothes. Yeah. Maybe a new outfit will diffuse whatever is going on with me.

Culver has already brought in some of the laundry. It's arranged in two piles on the sofa—my stuff and his.

I scoop up my pile of clothes and carry them to my room.

It's only once I throw the clothes onto my bed that I notice they're not as sorted as I thought they were. A few of his things are mixed in with mine.

Oh, well.

I pick out my favorite leggings, and as I search for a top to wear, I notice the T-shirt he wore a few nights ago.

I lift it out in front of me and smile.

It's huuuge.

I'd be swimming in it if I wore it.

Which would be fun…just to see what it looks like. And hey, I'm all about fun these days.

I drape it over my head, and yep, I was right. It hangs loosely like a tent, reaching my thighs.

I'm standing in front of the mirror, grinning at how ridiculous I look when I hear my bedroom door open, followed by a loud thud.

Startled, I spin around.

Culver's against the wall, wincing, struggling to balance the laundry basket while trying to take his AirPods out.

"I'm so sorry," he says once he removes them. "I didn't think you were back yet."

"Just got home." I walk over to him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I didn't want to accidentally see anything I shouldn't see, so I tried to back out of the room, but I forgot there was a wall here."

The thud I heard was loud, which can't be good for his hip. I take the basket out of his hands and drop it onto the floor.

Stepping closer, I study his face. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." He nods, smiling tightly. "I am."

I'm not sure if I fully believe that, but I can't press him on it because the next words out of his mouth stump me.

"Is that my shirt?"

"Oh." Shoot. How do I explain this? "Um…Hot girl summer?"

I smile, hoping to mask that it came out more like a question than a statement.

"O-kay," he says, then carefully steps away from the wall and stretches to his full six-three height.

I was startled when he walked in, and then worried he'd hurt himself, so I didn't notice before that he was still shirtless.

But now?

Now it's all I can see. My vision fills with the wide span of his shoulders, his strong arms, and miles and miles of smooth, glistening skin.

I suppose I could offer him the shirt I'm wearing, but then I'd no longer be inches away from his magnificent chest, and I can't have that.

Wait. What?

What I can't do is ogle my best friend. That's a surefire way to raise suspicions I do not want to raise.

So I do the sensible thing. I drag my eyes away and look up from his spectacular, olive-skinned torso…to his sharp jawline and soulful dark-chocolate eyes.

Ugh. He's really not making this easy for me.

I tug on my shirt. Well, his shirt. Which I'm still wearing. "I'll get changed and give it back to you."

"No." His voice is firm as he takes one giant step toward me, eliminating the space between us. There's a heat in his eyes and a heaviness to his breathing that wasn't there a few moments ago. "Wear it." He licks his lips. "If it feels good…"

"It does," I whisper, my throat suddenly dry.

"That's what this summer is all about, right?"

"It is."

"Cool." His voice is raw and husky.

"Cool." I sound like a choking frog.

Neither one of us moves.

Or stops staring at each other.

An alarm sounds.

"What's that?"

"The sauce is ready," he says, not moving, not taking his eyes off me.

"You should, uh, probably go get that," I say, not moving either, not taking my eyes off him.

"Yeah." He clears his throat and steps back, snapping himself out of…whatever that was. "I'll meet you in the kitchen?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"Okay. Good. We have a plan. Bye."

"Bye."

I venture into the kitchen not two minutes later.

"Hi."

"Hi."

In that time, Culver has put on a shirt, plated up the pasta into two bowls, and hopefully forgotten all about what just happened in my bedroom.

"It's still light out," he says, carrying both bowls. "Wanna eat outside?"

"Sure."

I grab utensils and napkins, and we head out to the small table in the backyard. I smile to myself as I ease down the wonky step he fixed. It's nice having someone around to help with all the stuff I can't do.

We sit down at the table and start eating, striking up a conversation that flows as easily and naturally, as always.

Good.

What happened in my bedroom was…well, I'm not sure. Not something that needs to be dissected right now, anyway.

Especially since we have another more pressing matter to deal with.

Like our upcoming nuptials.

"Your nonna came into the flower shop again today to discuss our wedding plans."

Culver drops his fork into the bowl with a loud clang. "Want me to get a restraining order?"

I giggle. "No. I like seeing her every day."

"You know that after she harasses you in your shop, she comes over here to have a go at me."

"She doesn't harass me. We…workshop wedding ideas." Culver snorts. I load up on some carbonara. "We're getting married in Fresno, by the way. And what does she have a go at you for?"

"She says I need to propose to you. Properly. She keeps showing me articles she's saved on her iPad of what she calls suitably romantic restaurants where I should do what she calls a proper proposal."

I giggle again. "I love that she's keeping up with technology. She's so active. I hope I'm as with it as she is when I'm in my mid-eighties."

"That's not the point."

"You want me to be fragile and unable to walk in my later years?"

"Of course not." When he notices me smiling, he relaxes a little. "Are we really doing this? Are we really getting married?"

"We are. Unless you can find someone better."

"No."

The sharpness in his voice startles me.

He pushes his bowl away and clears his throat. "There is no one better than you, Hannah. Don't you see? That's why I'm so conflicted about you marrying a schmuck like me when the right guy, someone who has his life sorted and can treat you the way you deserve to be treated, could be right around the corner."

We've had a version of this conversation every day this week. Mainly it's been Culver checking in and reassuring me I don't have to do this, that he won't be upset if I back out.

But he's never said anything like this before.

I don't know how to process it.

I reach across the table and wrap my hands around his massive fingers. "You are not a schmuck," I say. "Schmucks don't color-coordinate their outfits as well as you do."

He smiles, but it's small and dimple-free.

"And also," I continue. "You're the kindest, sweetest, most thoughtful person I know. I want to do this. I am doing this. We're best friends, and what are best friends for if not to help each other out when times call for a little fake marriage?"

"That feels so good." My eyes are closed, and my body is melting into the sofa. "Don't ever stop."

If living with Culver this past week has taught me anything, it's that dinner is not the pinnacle of my evening.

This is.

We finished our meal outside, cleaned up, and assumed our usual positions on the couch.

But before we dive into our nightly binge watch, I get treated to one of the most heavenly pleasures on earth—a foot rub.

I don't know how he does it, or why it feels so good, but the man knows how to work his fingers.

On my foot.

Although…if he's this talented with my foot, imagine what he could be like with?—

"Pressure okay?"

I let out a small gasp as he runs his finger over an especially tight spot. "Yeah. Perfect."

Why is my brain insisting on going places I cannot go with Culver?

Before I can unpack that, my phone dings on the coffee table.

"That's a text from me," he says.

I crack open an eye. "You're massaging my feet and texting at the same time?"

"And they say men can't multitask." He grins. "Since I still think the photo you sent me of Katie's list is cropped, even though you deny it, I've created a shared document with you. A new list. That way we both have access to it and can update it in real time as we come up with more ideas. You'll see that I've added nightly foot rubs to it." A slight pause. "I hope that's okay?"

I reach over, pick up my phone, and smile as I open the file. Yep, he's added it to the list. "I suppose I'll survive somehow."

He's been asking me about the cropped list photo I sent him, and I keep telling him that there is nothing else there. I cannot—repeat cannot—admit I added losing my virginity to the list. It's the one thing, the only thing, I can't reveal to him.

"You'll also see that I've moved checking out the purple carpet to the top of the list. I did some research online, and this time of year is the best time to see it."

The purple carpet is a stunning natural phenomenon known as a superbloom. Entire hillsides and fields get blanketed in wildflowers—the most noteworthy is the purple lupine—and it creates the effect of the entire landscape looking like a purple carpet. It's a huge tourist draw, yet despite it being a less than an hour's drive from Comfort Bay, I've never seen it.

"Sounds great," I say. "So we get married next weekend, and then the weekend after that, we'll go see the purple carpet."

The pressure he's applying on my foot increases.

"Yeah." A line forms between his brows. "But after the wedding, Hannah, I promise you every weekend is going to be about you."

"I know."

I have no doubt it will be.

I can tell Culver still has reservations about getting married. Even though I'm confident I've gotten him to believe I genuinely want to do it, I think he's struggling with another aspect of it—accepting the inheritance from his grandfather.

I understand the ethical dilemma, but at the same time, if he doesn't take the money, how does that change how that man treated his mother?

It doesn't.

The only person he'd be hurting is himself.

He finishes the massage the way he always does by flexing my toes a few times, then gently placing my feet on the ground.

"Thank you. That was amazing. Ready for some trashy reality TV?"

He stretches his long legs out onto the coffee table and hooks his hands behind his head. "Always."

I queue up our next episode, and as the intro theme song starts playing, ask, "How did we even discover this show?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. But that happens a lot with us."

"What happens a lot?"

"How we don't always remember where stuff comes from. Like the bad jokes. When did they start? Or the hey thing we do."

"The bad jokes come from you only knowing bad jokes."

Culver grins. "Which reminds me. What do turtles and tacos have in common?"

"I don't know. What?"

"They both come in hard and soft shells."

I groan and cover my mouth. "I swear, they're getting worse."

He leans over and tries to grab my arm, but I manage to move out of his reach. "Then why are you smiling?"

I ignore the question and try to remember where the hey thing originated. "I'm not sure about the hey thing," I say, pausing the show so we don't miss a second of it. "Maybe it's from a movie? Or maybe it's an us thing?"

Culver nods. "I think it's an us thing. Probably a me thing, since I come up with all the good ones."

I throw a pillow at him, which he catches and cradles into his chest.

He looks over at me adorably, his face illuminated by the glow from the TV, his curls as messy as always, his biceps flexing around the pillow he's hugging.

I've always been able to be objective about Culver's good looks. He's an attractive man. That's simply a fact. I can admit that. So why am I suddenly noticing his attractiveness more? Maybe he's putting something in the sauces?

In need of something else to occupy my mind, I press play on the remote, and our favorite secret guilty pleasure begins.

Below Deck is the epitome of trashy reality TV.

It follows the behind-the-scenes lives of crew members who work and reside aboard a superyacht during a charter season. Throw in affluent guests with high expectations, young, single, and cocky crew members with overinflated egos, and a ton of alcohol, and you've got the ingredients for all the fights, drama, and cattiness you want in a reality TV show.

After watching the episode—as well the official after-show interview, plus a few YouTube recaps just so we're fully informed about the drama surrounding the guests getting super drunk after dinner and having a massive argument, during which two crew members had to step in to prevent the situation from escalating into an all-out fist fight—I stretch my arms overhead and yawn.

"You tired?" Culver asks.

"Yeah. I've been sleeping so well all week. Think I'm almost caught up."

He helps me up off the couch and keeps his arm around my waist as we head to our rooms. We stop at Chester's door, which is where Culver is sleeping.

I yawn again. "Is it bad luck to hug your soon-to-be husband?"

He chuckles and pulls me into his solid body.

It's nice and warm and feels so good.

I'm still wearing his shirt.

Which is also nice and warm and feels so good.

We say goodnight and go into our rooms.

I fall asleep as soon as my face hits the pillow.

I'm still wearing his shirt.

The notification sound of a Vinaigrettes group chat rings in the air.

Uh-oh.

"What's that face?" Culver asks from the passenger seat.

"Nothing. This is my I'm focused while I'm driving face."

We're heading to Fresno.

It's D-day.

Or W-day.

Or FW-day, since it's a fake wedding, not a real one.

Culver's nonna knows someone at the county clerk's office there. We can have a civil ceremony, and thanks to her roping in a few of the other REDs, we also have the officiant and witnesses taken care of as well.

Culver was still a little worried about the whole wedding thing overtaking my hot girl summer plans until a few days ago when I reminded him that a road trip to Fresno was in fact on my list of things to do. That cheered him up, and while I wouldn't say he's looking forward to this, he has lightened up a bit.

I'm actually happy we're not getting married in Comfort Bay. It makes it less likely for word of this to spread. Culver's nonna swore the REDs to secrecy, and along with Culver's family, no one else knows what we're doing.

Including my girlfriends.

And that's how we both want it. No family, no friends attending, because this wedding is about as real as the manufactured drama on reality TV. Yes, I know those shows are most likely all fake, and no, that doesn't diminish my enjoyment of them one bit.

Another notification alert fills the Jeep.

"Someone's trying to get in touch with you," he says. "Is it one of the kids?"

"No. That sound is for the group chat I have with my friends. Don't worry. Everything's fine," I say, shooting him my everything's fine smile.

"If everything's fine, then why does your face look like the time you accidentally drank ketchup?"

"Sometimes it's annoying you know me so well."

He chuckles.

I flick my eyes over to him, and if I thought he was hot shirtless, he's even hotter in a suit.

Okay, maybe not hotter.

Equally hot, because why choose?

He went for a classic dark shade, sharp charcoal, and the crisp lines of the suit jacket accentuate his broad shoulders.

I opted for a midi-length muted blush-pink dress I bought online a few months ago because it was on sale but haven't had the chance to wear yet.

"My friends are probably wanting to know how my hot girl summer is going."

His dark brows knit together. "I'm so sor?—"

"Don't apologize," I cut in. "I'm marrying a super-hot NHL player who has cooked me a divine meal of heavenly carby goodness every night for the last two weeks, cleaned my house, done my laundry, fixed my broken porch step, given me foot rubs I don't know how I'm going to be able to live without once the summer is over, and binge-watched our secret show with me. Do you know how many women would kill to be in my shoes?"

His lips curl into a faint smile. "What are you going to tell your friends?"

"Absolutely nothing," I say, checking my rearview mirror as I merge onto the I-5.

I've never told my friends about my feelings for Culver because what would be the point? Nothing can ever come of them, so I'd rather field their not-so-subtle digs about our friendship from time to time than open my heart and reveal the true extent of my one-sided feelings.

And there's no way I'm telling them about this fake wedding. Can you imagine the ribbing Beth and Amiel in particular would give me?

Culver shifts in his seat.

"Are you in pain?" I ask.

"A little. It's fine."

"Want me to pull over so you can stretch your legs?"

"Not just yet. Maybe later if it gets worse?"

"Okay. Tell me if it does."

"I will." I feel his gaze land on me. "So how come you're not telling your friends about this?" he asks.

"Didn't your dad tell us not to tell anyone?"

"Yeah, but your friends are more like family, aren't they?"

"They are. But you know how sometimes no one in the world teases you more than your siblings?"

He smiles, his cute dimples making an appearance this time. "I may know a thing or two about that."

"Well, that's what it's like with my girls. Especially since?—"

I snap my mouth shut, but it's too late. He heard.

"Oh, no. You can't stop there. You were just getting to the juicy bit."

I sigh.

I suppose I could trot out the old 'because they'll think we're really a couple' line, but no. It's Culver, and we don't keep things from each other.

No matter how ridiculous.

"I was going to say, especially since they teased me about this very thing happening."

His thick eyebrows shoot up. "They predicted us getting fake married?"

"It's called a marriage of convenience in romance novel terms, and yes, they did."

"O-kay. I never knew your friends are psychic."

I laugh. "They're not. But I just think it's better not to tell them."

"Your call," he says with a wide smile. "Hot girl summer rules are in effect, and you're in charge."

I laugh again as the wind blows through my hair, liking the sound of that.