Chapter 3: The Pre-Spring Thaw (And How We Avoided It)

I stared at myself in the mirror. I was wearing a black dress that was aggressively professional. The kind of dress that says, "I am here to network, not to accidentally catch feelings." This was key because the last thing I needed was to turn up at a golf coach's party looking like I was actually trying to date a golfer.

Jackson’s coach, a man named Coach Hayes, lived in a sprawling house north of the city. It was the kind of place that smelled faintly of money, leather, and disappointment. When Jackson opened the door to his car, I felt an instantaneous rush of theatrical comfort.

"Ready to execute the mission, Holidate?" he asked, his Australian accent low and conspiratorial. He looked impossibly good in a simple navy blazer. The kind of look that immediately invalidates Rule V (No staring at the accent, or the person attached to it).

"As ready as I will ever be to pretend to have a functioning relationship in a room full of people who think matching polo shirts are haute couture," I replied, taking his offered arm.

The moment we stepped inside, the Physical Proximity Guidelines (PPGs) went into effect. Jackson’s hand settled perfectly on the small of my back. A solid, warm anchor. It was not possessive. It was a clear signal of partnership, a boundary marker against the outside world.

"Smile, darling," he murmured, leaning down just enough so I could smell his cologne. "We are playing to the cheap seats. Committed, but effortlessly so."

His coach, a stout man with a suspicious mustache, was the first to attack.

"Jackson! And this must be... Sloane! Jackson speaks very highly of you. A copywriter, yes?" Coach Hayes pumped my hand vigorously.

"That is right," I said brightly. "I sell the dream. It helps that Jackson is such a strong influence on my current campaign."

Jackson smoothly interrupted before I could elaborate on how my current campaign was for specialized high-fiber breakfast cereal. "She is the best. Coach, we were just talking about your clinic in Scottsdale. When do you leave?"

The deflection worked. Coach Hayes launched into a monologue about plane schedules and driver specs, and we were safely ignored for five minutes, exchanging tiny, congratulatory nods over his shoulder.

The second wave of attack came from a woman named Chloe, a perfectly manicured blonde with the glacial confidence of someone who had never eaten carbohydrates after 6 PM. She was clearly a former flame or a current competitive rival.

"Jackson," Chloe chirped, sliding up to him with a martini glass. "Did not know you were bringing a plus-one. I heard you were prioritizing your swing this year, not... distractions."

"Chloe, this is Sloane," Jackson said, tightening his grip on my waist ever so slightly. "Sloane, this is Chloe, an analyst for the Golf Channel. She is delightful."

I offered a professional smile, trying to channel the effortless poise I definitely did not possess. "It is lovely to finally meet the people Jackson tells me about. He was just telling me about your latest report on clubhead speed. Fascinating stuff."

Jackson stared at me, a hint of surprise in his eyes. I had not the faintest clue what clubhead speed was, but I knew how to create convincing B.S. on the fly. Chloe, momentarily derailed by the assumed intimacy, muttered a compliment about my dress and moved on.

"That was brilliant," Jackson whispered, guiding me toward the less-populated kitchen area. "You saved me from a forty-five-minute discussion on my emotional availability. You are a tactical genius."

"It is my job. I am paid to lie convincingly," I reminded him, grabbing a seltzer. "But that was a little too close to violating Article IV. The Jealousy Buffer. She was clearly flirting."

"And you were clearly playing the supportive girlfriend role to perfection, which technically violates Article II. The Feelings Filter, by making me feel ridiculously supported," he countered. "See? The rules are impossible."

We both leaned against the cold granite countertop, a small oasis away from the holiday cheer. The noise of the party receded.

"What is the actual deal with Chloe?" I asked, immediately regretting breaking Rule II by asking an unsolicited personal question.

Jackson sighed, running a hand through his hair. "She is great. She is successful. She wants a timeline. A partnership. A very clear path. I just want to play golf for a while. That is why I need you, Sloane. You are a gorgeous, honest reprieve from expectations."

I felt a strange warmth spread through me. A mix of relief that he saw me as a reprieve and a faint prickle of disappointment that he saw me as a reprieve.

"Well, I get it," I admitted, swirling the ice in my glass. "My last real boyfriend wanted me to quit freelancing and get a real job with benefits so we could save up for a timeshare. Sometimes it feels easier to be completely alone than to constantly negotiate your life with someone."

The shift in the conversation was palpable. We were no longer talking about the pact. We were talking about our actual fears. We looked at each other, and for a long, quiet moment, there was nothing breezy or performative about his gaze. It was deep, analytical, and surprisingly kind.

Do not stare at the accent. Do not stare at the eyes. Do not stare at the way his hand is resting only inches from mine on the counter. I mentally chanted.

"Right. Good talk," Jackson said, snapping himself out of the moment. He pushed off the counter. "Let us find the dessert. Then we can make our grand exit."

We made it through the rest of the night without incident. We laughed easily, and he defended me perfectly when someone asked if my freelance job was just a hobby.

In the car, driving me home, the air was thicker than it had been before the party.

"Mission accomplished," Jackson announced, pulling up outside my apartment building.

I nodded, though my pulse was still playing catch-up. We had followed the rules all night, hit every cue, dodged every awkward question, and yet something felt off kilter. Too close. Too easy. Like we were performing a script that had started to sound suspiciously like the truth.

I reminded myself of Article II. Our sacred, emotion-free zone. But my brain had apparently decided to shred that page sometime between the kitchen countertop and the drive home.

"No awkward proposals. No forced small talk. And the coach thinks we are deeply in love," he continued.

"Success," I agreed, staring at the dash. "But we need to be more diligent. We were dangerously close to breaking the No unsolicited life advice rule."

"Noted." He paused, turning off the ignition. "See you Tuesday, Holidate. For the main event."

"Tuesday," I repeated, opening the door. "And Jackson, do not forget. We are still free to date other people."

He gave me a half smile in the dim street light. "Why would I? I already have the perfect fake date."

I closed the door quickly, the sound echoing in the silence. The perfect fake date. I needed to remember that. I climbed the stairs, the cold granite of the counter still warm against my back, already counting down the hours until our next pre-arranged performance.

With the warm-up party complete, we can now tackle the official start of the Holidate calendar!