I manage a joke. “No I will not marry you. We’ve been over how I don’t want to be Hollis Wallace.”

“Ha ha, funny.” He stirs the straw around his glass of ice water. “After the games this week, I was going to head down to see my parents, and I told my mom I was seeing someone because I thought it would make her happy, and now she wants to meet my girlfriend.”

“Is your mom okay?” I clutch my chest. That poor woman must be suffering!

“What do you mean?”

“Is this her…dying wish? To see you married off before she takes her last breath?” Oh gosh, what if it is? How can I say no?

Buzz’s handsome face contorts, puzzled. “No—my mom is fine, she just harps on us a lot to settle down. What would make you think she was dying?”

“You asked in a very dramatic manner.”

“Um, actually, no I didn’t.”

Fine. Maybe not so dramatic, but it did catch me off guard. “Are you asking me to lie to your mother’s face?”

He nods, unabashedly. “And my dad’s face.”

“Your mother will live if you are single for another weekend.”

“But I already told her about you.”

This gives me pause. “About me, specifically?”

“Yes.”

“Why would you do that?!” Is he insane? Clearly he is, since he creeps on unsuspecting women in libraries and blackmails others to have tacos with them. The shell in my mouth tastes like sandpaper, and I’d spit it out if it wasn’t considered impolite.

I want to strangle him!

“I just want my mom to be happy.”

“But she’s not dying! She will live. It is not a big deal! My parents want me to settle down, but do you see me pretending to have a boyfriend? No.”

“I beg to differ.” His brows shoot up. “That is exactly what you’re doing.”

“Oh my god! No—this is your fault! You’re the one who wanted to pretend to help me. It’s not like I hunted you down!” This man is exasperating.

“Semantics. The point is, you’re doing it.” He puts the napkin—the one that says I like your boobs—back on his lap. “As we speak.”

“You’re twisting the situation around so it suits you and we both know it.”

Buzz pulls out his cell phone, taps on it a few times, scrolls—then holds it out in my direction. “This is my mom. Do you want to disappoint this face?”

Dear lord, his mother is adorable.

Sandwiched in between Buzz and a man who looks almost identical—his brother—she’s beaming and tiny compared to the two of them.

“Is it just you and your brother?”

“No, we have a sister, True. She’s one year younger.”

He’s still holding the phone practically in my face; there is no denying his mother looks delightful and not like someone you’d want to disappoint.

Still.

“This is not my problem.”

“It would be an even trade.”

Is he serious?

“No.” I haven’t lost my appetite, so I keep eating.

“Please?”

That has me looking back up at him.

Shit. Do not beg me, Buzz Wallace. This won’t end well for me.

I swallow the lump of meat in my throat and shake my head firmly. No.

“Please, Hollis. Please, I’m willing to do anything.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

“Gross. Don’t ever do that.”

The smile gets wiped off his face. “Sorry.”

The thing about athletes is—the ones with the winning, can-do attitudes? They never give up. So I said no, but Buzz isn’t ready to accept it, and I have a feeling it only has a tiny bit to do with his mother and a whole lot to do with the fact that he likes me.

There, I said it—Buzz Wallace likes me.

I can see it in the way he looks at me and the way he’s trying to spend time with me, though it’s mostly extortion and blackmail and manipulation.

Not the bad kind, but…

He’s trying too hard.

Be real, Hollis—you wouldn’t give him the time of day if he wasn’t chasing after you like a lovesick puppy.

I study him across the table, the tacos on his plate nearly gone, basket of chips nearly empty, water totally empty, stomach definitely full. He’s watching me in earnest, barely blinking.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

Buzz throws down his napkin, shoves his chair back away from the table, and pumps his fist in the air. “Yeah buddy!”

Jesus H.

This man is so over the top.

But come on—what’s the worst thing that could happen if I do this?

9

Trace

“Mom, this is Hollis.”

I repeat this in the mirror a few times, practicing the introduction as I pull a bright blue polo over my head. I don’t typically dress up to see my folks, but since I’m taking a date, I class myself up a bit and throw on a nice shirt.

Shorts.

Deck shoes instead of sneakers.

“Mom, meet your future daughter-in-law.”

If I said that, Hollis would kill me with her bare hands, probably in front of my parents.

I grab the candle I bought my mom and head to grab Hollis. She doesn’t know the drive is a bit of a hike, but it’s scenic so I doubt she’ll mind.