The Accidental Girlfriend

“That you’re a weirdo, too.” I got up and grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge. “Is that the worst your elderly relatives did? Because my grandpa took us fishing in Alaska when I was thirteen and I had to watch him roll up his pants, showing his little chicken legs, all because he wanted to show us how he could catch a salmon with his bare hands.”

Mason’s finger hovered over the trackpad as he looked at me. “Did he catch one?”

“No. It jumped out of the water and smacked him in the face. He doesn’t do that anymore.”

“Smart man.”

“A smarter man would have stuck to a fishing rod. Anyway, what other clips have you got on here?”

“All right, I was going to save this, but since you found the line dancing perfectly acceptable…” He tapped on another video. It burst to life, filling the screen. “That’s Grandpa Ernie.”

I watched as the old man with a rounded belly and a walking stick started to sway side to side to Ed Sheeran’s Shape of You. “I don’t see the problem.”

Mason sat back on the sofa. “Keep watching.”

This was a trap, wasn’t it?

It felt like a trap.

I watched for a good minute and nothing happened. Just his grandpa, swaying side-to-side, to Ed Sheeran.

Then, the beat kicked in.

And so did Grandpa Ernie.

His walking stick was discarded with a flourish, and he ran his hands over his body like a drunken stripper before he did, in fact, strip off his shirt.

To reveal a latex shirt.

“Um,” I whispered.

Mason muffled a laugh.

Grandpa Ernie moved to unbutton his shorts while a group of older ladies hollered and whooped like it was a bachelorette party.

“Mason, I’m scared.”

“You said you didn’t see a problem.”

Grandpa Ernie slid down his pants to reveal a pair of leather budgie smugglers.

“There’s a problem! There’s a problem!” I quickly shut the laptop down and scrambled back on the sofa. “My eyes!”

This time, he didn’t hide his laughter. It was so loud that it attracted the attention of Henry who, sensing new blood, bounded over to the sofa.

I knew what was happening.

I was going to let him do it, too.

Hey—if you show someone a video of an old man stripping to leather sex clothes, you deserve to have a cat sit on your head.

Mason threw his arm over his eyes as he laughed so hard he had to clutch at his stomach with his other hand.

And, Henry being Henry, stopped to look at me with a questioning tilt of his head. When I didn’t tell him to stop, he plodded across the back of the cushions and dumped his chubby self right on top of Mason’s head.

He stopped, his laugh petering out. “Uh, Lauren? Is your cat sitting on my head?”

“’Row,” Henry mewled.

“That’s yes in cat,” I replied.

“Why is he sitting on my head?”

“Because Henry’s an asshole.”

Henry responded by licking his paw.

See? Asshole.

“Right. Can you get him off?”

I leaned against the arm and hugged my knee to my chest. “I don’t know. You could have warned me about the leather wonder I was about to be exposed to.”

“Then you wouldn’t have watched it.”

“Of course I wouldn’t have, you lunatic. I’m going to have nightmares about that for weeks. Did you see that?”

“Yes. I was there.”

“Then you deserve my fat cat sitting on your head.”

“This is against my human rights.”

“Seeing your grandpa in leather budgie smugglers is against mine!”

He fought laughter again. “You’re not going to move the cat, are you?”

“Not on your life.”

Mason sighed. “Aw, look at us. Our first real fight as a fake couple.”

Henry bounced off his head to a sunspot on the windowsill, apparently done with being my revenge plan.

“Yeah, well, I take my apologies in size Sauvignon Blanc.”

His blue eyes dragged a path over my body as he looked me up and down. “I’ve seen you eat nothing but junk. Are you one of those irritating people who can eat what they want and put on no weight?”

“Okay, first.” I held up one finger. “You look like you could walk into the cast of the Avengers, so don’t come at me with that. Also, I run. Every day. And I don’t always eat junk.”

“You run?” His eyebrows shot up.

“I don’t know if I should be insulted or not.”

“No, I just—you don’t look like a runner.”

“And you don’t look like Chris Hemsworth, but here you are on my sofa looking like a dark-haired Norse god,” I shot back. “What’s your point?”

He held up his hands, fighting another laugh, one that made his eyes shine. “Hey, I have a physical job. I rarely get to the gym, but I’m always moving.”

“Have you ever worked behind a bar? I’m not exactly running a call center back there. It never stops sometimes.”

“Do I look like I mix cocktails?”

Doing what he’d done just minutes before, I took a long, hard look at him, from head to toe.