“Sorry,” Weston says quietly. “Didn’t mean to bring you down. Do we need another song?”

“Too late!” I pull into Dalton’s grand driveway. “We’re here already.” I park behind Lila’s shiny BMW and put the car in park.

“Hey.” Weston turns to me in his seat, and makes no move to get out. “It’s never too late for a song. I sing loudly and badly whenever the mood strikes.”

Wow, is my only lucid thought. Those blue eyes are quite debilitating at close range. Weston Griggs is in my car. For the next couple of hours, he’s my Thanksgiving date.

“Once more for luck,” he says, hitting the play button again. The Avett Brothers launch into the intro again.

“Are we really doing this?” I laugh.

“We really are.”

Then we both open our mouths and launch into the song. This time I’m not driving, so we can watch each other. I’m sure I’d feel self-conscious if Weston weren’t hamming it up like a drunk karaoke singer.

He’s even dancing a little in his seat. It’s so ridiculously cute that I can’t help but giggle my way through the song.

Oh God, I’m giggling. Just like the girls who are always perched on his knee after hockey games. I get it now. Giggling makes more sense when Weston Griggs is smiling at you.

We’re both red faced and laughing as the song ends. Reluctantly, I climb out of my car. Weston grabs the flowers and the wine, and then wraps an arm around my shoulders as we approach the house.

It feels—wow—really nice. He’s naturally talented when it comes to this fake boyfriend thing. He even gives my shoulder a little squeeze just before the front door opens onto my step-stepmother.

“Abbi! Happy Thanksgiving!” she gushes. “And you must be Abbi’s young man. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Really?” he asks with a chuckle. “What did she say?”

Oh no! When I’d called Lila to tell her I was bringing someone, she’d asked polite questions about my “new man.” And since I already admired Weston, it was easy enough to provide some details. Terrific at hockey. Fun person. Lovely manners.

Praising him came easily to me. But if she repeats any of it, I’m going to sound like a creepy stalker.

But I’m in luck. She gives him a generic smile instead, probably because she wasn’t listening to me anyway. “It’s good to meet you. Come right in.”

“These are for you,” Weston says, offering the flowers. “And I brought a bottle of sauvignon blanc.”

“How lovely,” she says. “Hang up your coats, and meet me in the kitchen. I’ll pour you a drink.” She leaves us alone in the entry hall of this house, which I’ve always thought of as Dalton’s. Never mine. Not even when I lived here.

“Oh jeez,” I say under my breath, realizing I’ve left something in the car.

“Problem?”

“The wine I brought is still outside.”

Weston glances toward the door. “If you want, I’ll step outside right now and grab it for you. But I have a better idea. You could think it over.”