The Fake Mate(13)

When I see her again.

I take a slow sip from my scotch glass, letting my phone drop to my lap as I watch the flames dance behind the closed door of the woodstove. I can’t yet rustle up any ideas as to who might have found me out, or why they would report it to the board; I’m not even sure what someone would have to gain from my being let go, but I have been thinking about it. It’s clear to me that it must be a personal matter, of that I am at least sure, which doesn’t narrow things down, given that the general consensus of me in the hospital is that I am intolerable outside of my work.

I take another sip from my glass, silently cursing my luck. Six years. Six whole years of managing to keep my secret while employed at the hospital, only to see it all dissipate with one email. More than that, if you count the years of residency and med school where I started really cracking down on keeping it under wraps. Utterly ridiculous.

I sigh as I pick my phone up, knowing that this is my bed now, and I have no choice but to lie in it—a thought that strangely brings me back to Mackenzie Carter. I read her text again, for the seventh time now, downing the rest of my glass before I set it on the side table.

ME: I know the place. Does 12:30 work? Does that give you enough time to finish up?



It takes her far less time to answer than it did for me to.

MACKENZIE: That works. How are you doing? Freaking out yet?



This takes me by surprise. Mostly because, like my texting habits, I can’t remember a time when anyone has worried about me in a way that wasn’t related to work or my mother.

ME: I’m fine. You?

MACKENZIE: Oh, you know. It isn’t like this is the first time I’ve had a fake mate boyfriend conspirator. No big deal. I’m an old pro.



My lips twitch.

ME: Right. I suppose it is a good thing that I am in such good hands for my first prevarication then.

MACKENZIE: I know I’m a doctor, but I’m still going to have to insist you use less words that I have to stop and Google.

ME: Noted. I’ll text you tomorrow to check in.

MACKENZIE: I’ll be waiting by the phone, lover.



I shake my head as I let my phone drop to my lap, covering my mouth for absolutely no reason, given that I am alone in my house.

It’s not as if Mackenzie is here to catch me smiling.



* * *





?The feeling in my chest is a new one, that’s for sure. Or at the very least, one I can’t remember the last time I’ve experienced. It’s an odd fluttering, like nerves, but for what I can’t pin down. Am I nervous about the agreement I’ve entered into, what it will mean if we can’t pull it off? Or am I nervous to see Mackenzie again, knowing how much of my career rests in her hands?

Either way, I’m watching the door as I hold a table at the little café. I check the clock again, noticing the time, frowning when I realize it’s five minutes past our agreed meeting time. Has she changed her mind? I know I could text her, but part of me worries she actually has, and then where will I be?

I haven’t seen her again in the days since I scented her outside of the hospital—an experience I’ll not soon forget. In fact, I’ve been mostly uncomfortable since the incident, seeing as I stopped taking my suppressants that very night, feeling antsy in a way I don’t ever remember feeling. I’ve been placating myself with the knowledge that it’s most likely unease that comes from our strange partnership. Her texts have helped, at least. Each one has assured me that she hasn’t changed her mind. At least not yet.

I’m saved from my growing worry when the glass door swings open at the entrance of the café, the little bell dinging above it to signal her arrival as she walks through the front door. Oddly enough, I smell her before I fully recognize her, her scent still clinging to me as much as I’d meant for mine to cling to her. It hasn’t left me since that morning in the bushes, if I’m being honest, and now that she’s nearby, it’s considerably more potent.

I’m not yet sure if that is a good or bad thing.

She wiggles her fingers in a wave when she notices me sitting at a table in the back corner, and I return it as she moves through the crowd toward me. Her thick tresses are piled on top of her head in a messy bun, her face slightly flushed red as if she’d only just finished her workout. She unwraps herself from her heavy coat before she settles across the table from me, revealing neon fabric that covers her from wrist to neck to ankle but the tightness of it still leaves little to the imagination.

“Sorry,” she tells me as she sits. “Session started late. Instructor got stuck in traffic.” She pushes one honeyed tendril from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. “I should have texted you to let you know.”

“It’s fine,” I tell her, pointedly not looking at her outfit. It’s very tight. Is this standard yoga wear? “I haven’t been here long.”

It’s a lie, but she doesn’t have to know that.

“So . . .” She leans on her elbows. “How are you? Still freaking out?”

“I haven’t freaked out.”

Her lips twitch. “Literally all of your texts have felt like you were checking to make sure I hadn’t changed my mind.”

“Well . . . I can’t say that I haven’t worried that you might.”