The plus one problem

1

There are a lot of ways to humiliate yourself in public.

Tripping in front of a crowd? Embarrassing, but recoverable.
Spilling coffee on a stranger? Inconvenient, but you can apologize and move on.
Having your mother loudly announce that you are single, pathetic, and in need of a boyfriend over speakerphone in the middle of a crowded café?

That one? That one is special.

Which is why I am currently gripping my latte so tightly it might explode, standing in the middle of Café Luna while my mother's voice booms out of my phone for the entire establishment to hear.

"Hallie, sweetie, you do know the wedding is in two and a half months, right? And that normal, functional adults bring dates to these sorts of things?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe if I stand very, very still, I will simply evaporate.

"Mom," I hiss. "Can we not do this here?"

"Oh, please. It's not like anyone is listening."

Spoiler alert: everyone is listening.

Including, unfortunately, Weston Hale.

He's sitting at a small table by the window, long legs stretched out, coffee in hand, watching me like I'm the most interesting thing to happen to his Monday morning.

He has that look—the one that says he finds my suffering amusing. And Weston Hale is not allowed to find me amusing.

We grew up together. We were rivals. He was the golden boy—straight-A student, high school baseball star, class president, the human equivalent of a perfectly organized planner. Meanwhile, I was the chaotic artist with a messy bun, perpetually losing things, running late, and embarrassing myself in new and exciting ways.

(Like the time I decided to enter the eighth-grade talent show with a dance routine and forgot all the choreography halfway through. To this day, the memory makes me want to walk into traffic.)

It's been years since high school, but some things never change—like the way he still looks at me, equal parts exasperation and smug amusement.

"You need to get out there!" my mother continues, completely oblivious to my impending social demise. "Meet a nice man! Maybe one with a stable job?"

Wes makes a choking sound, like he's holding back laughter.

I glare at him, mouthing go away, but he just smirks, sipping his coffee like he's watching a particularly interesting reality show.

I need an escape. Immediately.

So, naturally, I do the worst possible thing.

"Actually, Mom, I already have a date."

Silence.

Then, slowly, she asks, "You do?"

Wes tilts his head, smirk growing. He knows I'm lying. He knows.

I lift my chin, trying to sound as confident as a person who just made up a fictional boyfriend can be. "Yes. He's... wonderful."

"Who is he?"

Crap. Think, Hallie, think.

And then—because the universe hates me—Wes stands up.

Casually. Like he's about to do something deeply inconvenient for me.

Before I can react, he strolls over, slides an arm around my waist, and—I kid you not—kisses the top of my head like it's something he does every day.