Page 28 of The Great Dating Fake Off
The door opens in a slow slide. Two older people shuffle in wearing rubber shoes, but it’s too steamy to make out anything above their knees.
But I recognize a voice. Santino. He’s chatting with a relative.
Sebastian hops to his feet. I didn’t realize just how close we’d gotten until we were no longer alone. Head dipped low, he disappears through the door without a backward glance. Or if he does glance back, I can’t see it through the haze.
I slowly take my hair out of its bun as an excuse to cover my face with my arm as I sprint to the exit, heart in my throat.Sebastian is gone by the time I emerge.
Whatever that was, it cannot happen again.
Chapter Nine
Sebastian
“You know pickleball is a physical activity, right?” I gesture at Alessia’s platform boots and jeans as we crest a hill on the resort’s grounds.
“And?”
“And you’re going to roll your ankle in those shoes.”
Her bottom lip juts out. “Huh. Would be a real shame if I had to hole up in my hotel room with an injury. Wouldn’t be able to socialize at all.”
“Oh, so this is self-destructive pickleball. Noted.”
“All sports are self-destructive, Sebastian. Or others-destructive.”
Four courts wait at the bottom of the steep sidewalk, two tennis and two pickleball. They aren’t my favorite games, but I’m down for any sport, any time.
After letting myself spend too much time with Nora last night in that steam room, damn near hypnotized by her voice and her stories and that tiny white towel riding up her legs, I’m grateful for the opportunity to be a good fake boyfriend this morning to correct the guilt at getting caught—almost caught—alone together by other wedding guests.
Benji’s grandfather. I recognized the voice from the bar and his back-and-forth with Gloria. It’s just my luck that Benji’s relatives would walk in when I’m in there with “his girl.”
We slow our pace as we come up to the large group. Plenty of newly familiar faces, but even more that I don’t recognize.I try to do a quick count of the crowd and give up when I hit twenty. The entire cast of The Sopranos could slip into any one of these Ferraro-Mazzelli events and go unnoticed.
I notch my Ray-Bans back into their proper place as the sun peeks out from behind a cloud. The warmth feels great on my arms. “Unexpectedly large turnout.”
“Is it, Sebastian?” Alessia asks flatly. “Is it unexpected?”
“You signed us up for this,” I remind her with a pleasant smack on the back. “Judging by the turnout, we’ll need to convert those tennis courts, too. You think someone already requested cones to mark the non-volley zone?”
“What does that mean?”
“Pickleball terms.”
She bids me a mistrustful look. “You’re an expert now? This is news to me.”
“I’ve YouTubed the rules. I wanted to be sure we knew what we were doing.”
“Sadly I think your research will go to waste,” she continues. “With all these people who showed up and only a few courts, odds are we won’t be able to play. Which is fine because we’re just here to show our faces in support of Enzo.” She nods indiscreetly toward two people squared off ten or so feet away, Enzo and the curvy black-haired girl who harassed Benji at the bookstore, the two of them wearing matching white Puma tracksuits.
Rosalina, the bride.
“I wonder what they’re arguing about.”
She shrugs. “It’s nine a.m. and they’re about to pickle some balls. I’d be picking a fight, too.”
“Please don’t say that ever again.”
The crowd shifts and Nora and Benji come into view.
