Page 49 of Meet Me on Mistletoe Lane

My palms started sweating at the potential embarrassment, but before I could spiral too hard about it, I said, “Deal.”

I learned that James and I had one big thing in common: We were loud board game players.

So much so that half the diner came over to find out which of us would spot the other person’s tiny tugboat first—the last untouched piece on each of our boards.

James ate the final bite of his sandwich and then leaned back in his seat, pursing his lips together as he studied his board. “I-8.”

“We already know you ate!” Phineas called out from behind the counter.

The entire diner burst into laughter, but I stayed quiet and stared at my small tugboat resting on the exact spot he just called. “Hit,” I mumbled.

“Hit!” James yelled, throwing his hands into the air.

Everyone started shouting “Hit! Hit!” so loudly that I wondered why more people hadn’t come inside from the street to see what the heck was going on in here.

My next guess missed, naturally, making the smug smile on James’s face only grow wider. And it was then that I noticed the tiniest of dimples on the right side of his face. If this was a real date, and I wasn’t about to lose a game I normally won, I’d admit that I found dimples adorable. But this was war.

And we did not think about dimples during war.

Or a fake date.

“I…7?” James asked.

Dang it.

The entire diner stilled, the only sounds coming from the soap opera on the TV mounted in the corner and the sizzling of the griddle.

I sighed. “Hit…and sink.”

Napkins flew into the air. Someone hit the order bell several times near the kitchen, and people started giving James high fives and patting his back before laughing and returning to their seats.

I grumbled and sank further into mine.

Hi, remember me?

The girl who has helped all of you more times than she can count?

James, oblivious to my pouting—or maybe not—whistled happily as he started to clean up his board.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said to him, separating my white and red pegs. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Oh, I will.” He stood and grabbed our checks from the table before pulling out his wallet.

I reached into my crossbody. “Here, let me—”

“Absolutely not.” He made a face and lowered his voice. “This may be a ‘fake date,’ but I clearly have a reputation now.” He gestured to the crowd in the diner, still watching him. “I’ve got this one.”

“Fine,” I said, putting my money away. “But I get to pay for cocoa at Eve’s, then.”

“Deal. And then I get to ask my questions.” He smirked.

Great. More embarrassment for me.

But as I watched him walk away to pay for our lunches, he smiled, shaking hands with several people like he’d known them for years and not an hour. It was like they had forgotten who he was and the powerful position his father was in.

Or maybe they just didn’t care, didn’t worry about him.

Maybe they saw something good in James Bailey, something promising.