Chapter Seven

He passes an equation after barely thirty seconds of explanation.

“Are you being serious right now, Dominic?” I roll my eyes, grabbing back my notes. “You barely explained anything.”

“Just finish the equation, then I’ll explain again.”

“Oh, you mean I should get it wrong?”

He doesn’t reply—just starts packing his textbook and notes into his backpack, grabs my textbook and my phone, and locks everything inside.

“What are you doing? You think I’m going to cheat?” I ask, half-laughing as he zips it shut and actually locks it with a tiny key.

“I need to close my eyes for a bit,” he says, leaning back against the couch, head tilting, lashes lowering. “Call me when you’re done.”

I stare at him. He’s serious. “Unbelievable,” I mutter, turning back to the sheet.

The equation is torture. Halfway through, I’m stuck. It doesn’t even look right. I cancel and start again, but it’s like the numbers are mocking me. I grab a drink to cool down, try again—and get stuck at the same point. I’m never getting this right.

I turn to wake Dominic and admit defeat, but then… my eyes land on him.

He looks peaceful, head tilted slightly, beads of sweat at his temple, lips parted just a little. His curly hair falls perfectly over his forehead, brushing his cheekbones. “Who said you had a big forehead,” I whisper.

His lips are so red. Is he wearing something? They look soft. Before I can stop myself, my thumb brushes against them—warm, a little moist. My breath catches.

He shifts, and I yank my hand away fast. He looks like a cat. A pretty one.

Then I remember Asher. My lock screen. I still have his picture. No. That ends now.

Moving carefully, I slide the tiny key from Dominic’s pocket and unlock his bag to grab my phone. I delete every photo of Asher and me—three years gone with a few swipes. My chest aches, but I don’t let the tears fall.

I glance back at Dominic. He’s still asleep. Slowly, I open my camera and click a photo of him. “Maybe I’ll use it for my wallpaper,” I murmur. “You know, to make the fake dating look real.”

But the photo doesn’t look right. I lean closer, snapping another, then another. Still not good enough.

I step carefully over his legs to get a better angle from the left, but my foot catches on a book—and I fall.

Right onto his waist.

“Shit,” I gasp, nearly dropping my phone. My pulse rockets.

His eyes open—wide, confused, then focused on me.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice groggy but sharp.

“Taking a picture! For my Instagram—to show people we’re not fake dating!” I blurt out.

He blinks slowly. “But… we are fake dating.”

“No one knows that!” I shoot back.

He exhales, long and slow. Then, still half-lying down, he places one hand on my waist. My breath catches.

“Then make it believable,” he says quietly.

He tugs me a little closer. My hand ends up on his chest—firm, warm. My face burns. I click the photo.

I realize too late where my butt is pressing into.

“You’re getting bigger, Dominic.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “I—” I freeze, trying to come up with something, anything, to salvage the situation.

His cheeks turn almost pink as he grabs his cardigan and drops it over his face.

“You’re sitting on me, Catherine,” he says, voice muffled under the fabric. “Might wanna get off.”

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I stammer, sliding to the side and grabbing a cushion to hide behind. My heart’s racing so fast it feels like I ran a marathon.

He peeks out from under the cardigan, eyes wide and flustered. “This is embarrassing.”

I throw the cushion at him. “Shut up.” But I’m smiling. And so is he.

Thirty minutes later, the house is quiet. Dominic had left in a hurry. I’m sure he’s still hiding under that cardigan out of embarrassment.

I grab my phone and scroll through the photos. In one, he’s about to grab the cardigan, his cheeks faintly pink. I can’t believe I caught that moment. Without hesitation, I set it as my wallpaper.

Logging into I*******m, I share a few of the photos, hesitating over what tag to use. Finally, I type, Teasing My Shy Boyfriend.

My thumb hovers, then strays to Asher’s page. Photos of him and Jennifer flood the feed — the date, the canteen ask-out. My mood sinks. It looks so easy for him to move on.

I log out and toss my phone aside, hunger kicking in.

I order pizza and turn on a rom-com, half-lost in the movie when my phone rings. Alice’s name flashes across the screen.

“Alice…”

“Cat—please, I’m in big trouble. I need you to come get me out of here,” she says, her voice trembling.

I shoot up from the couch. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t explain right now. I went out on a date and he won’t let me leave, so I’m stuck in the bathroom.” She sniffles, sounding terrified.

“Where are you?” I grab my keys and rush for the door.

“I’ll text you the address.”

Within minutes, I’m in a taxi. The address leads me to a small café that’s still buzzing despite the late hour. I pay the driver and hurry inside, following the restroom sign.

“Alice,” I call softly.

“Cat…” One of the stalls opens, and she steps out with tear-streaked cheeks. She rushes into my arms, shaking. “I was so scared.”

I hug her tight. “What happened? Why are you crying?”

“I met this guy on a dating app. We decided to meet, and he invited me to a party a few days ago…”

My mind clicks. “That day you weren’t home?”

She nods. “Yeah. But now he’s blackmailing me. He made a video of me ‘stealing’ — but I didn’t steal! He asked me to grab his sweater from his room. I didn’t know until today, when he said we should meet. He’s filming a new video claiming I returned the sweater and that he forgives me. He’s posting it to make me look guilty!” Her voice breaks. “It’s going to ruin my reputation, Cat. You know how social media can be.”

“He can’t do that,” I say firmly, pulling out my phone. “Let me call my dad.”

I step away, dialing my dad. He picks up on the first ring.

“Princess, I’m in a business meeting right now, but I’ll call you later.”

“Whatever, but my friend’s in a bit of trouble, and I was wondering if you could have one of your lawyers come over.”

His tone sharpens. “What kind of trouble?”

“Someone’s creating a video she hasn’t agreed to,” I answer honestly.

“Alright. Mr. Kennedy will meet you in a moment. Text me your location—and Catherine,” his voice softens, “please stay out of trouble.”

“Alright, Dad.” I end the call and sigh.

Alice steps closer, her eyes wide. “What did he say?”

“His lawyer’s coming.”

She exhales shakily, then throws her arms around me. “Thank you.”

I hug her back, smiling faintly. “Just helping my best friend and boyfriend’s sister.”

The moment the word boyfriend leaves my lips, my stomach does this weird little flip. Great. Now even my brain’s joining the fake-dating act.