Contract Marriage: I Will Never Love You
Chapter 160: Who is Kevin?

Chapter 160: Who is Kevin?

Rebecca

I slide into the chair Kevin pulled out for me, trying not to read too much into the way his hand briefly grazes the back of my arm. He smells—annoyingly like exactly what Sara promised: clean cotton with a hint of cedar and maybe something citrusy.

My mind drifts into Marcus. He smelled incredible too...

No, I can’t think of him now. I left him at New York and that’s where he needs to stay.

The table is warm with noise and flickering candlelight, everyone settling in with plates passed down like currency. Josh is already halfway through a rib, sauce on his chin, while Hailey looks at him with admiration. Oh, young love...

Kevin sits beside me and unfolds his napkin like it’s a formal event. He is calm, maybe even a little shy, which is a refreshing change from the usual brand of loud, performative confidence I tend to attract.

Like Marcus.

"So," he says as he spoons some grilled corn onto his plate, "do I need to apologize for showing up as your blind date?"

I glance sideways at him. "Only if this turns out to be one of those nights where I fake an emergency just to leave early."

He chuckles softly. "Good to know the bar’s nice and low."

"Oh, incredibly low," I say, stabbing a piece of roasted squash. "Practically underground."

He raises his wine glass in a mini toast. "To manageable expectations."

I clink mine lightly against his. "And plausible deniability."

We fall into an easy rhythm after that. Sharing side dishes, swapping harmless stories. I learn he’s been working in pediatric oncology for three years. He doesn’t talk about it to impress me; he talks about it like it’s hard, like it matters, like he’s grateful to be doing something that feels useful. That gets my attention more than a thousand well-rehearsed dating app bios.

Halfway through the meal, I catch Sara watching us from across the table with that smug, matchmaking smile of hers. I narrow my eyes and mouth, Stop it, but she just lifts a piece of bread in faux innocence and looks away.

Kevin follows my gaze and leans in just a little. "Let me guess, Sara’s the puppet master in this scenario?"

I smirk. "Oh, full-on string-puller. She probably has a Pinterest board labeled ’Rebecca’s Future Husband’ somewhere."

He laughs, not the forced kind, but something genuine and warm that settles under my skin in an annoyingly pleasant way. "Should I be flattered or concerned?"

"A little of both," I say, reaching for another slice of grilled eggplant. "But hey, at least you’re not a tech bro who collects crypto and red flags."

Kevin pretends to wipe his brow in relief. "Whew. Dodged that stereotype."

A comfortable silence settles between us as plates clink and forks scrape across ceramic. Someone puts on music—old jazz, the kind that drifts like perfume through warm air. I find myself relaxing.

Kevin refills my glass without asking, like he’s already figured out that I’m not one of those women who makes a big deal out of small courtesies. He doesn’t make a show of it. Just pours, then sets the bottle down with a soft clink and resumes eating like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I swirl the wine, watching it catch the light.

"So," he says, carefully buttering a roll like he’s handling a surgical instrument, "what about you? What do you do when you’re not being ambushed by dinner party setups?"

"I am a Kindergarten teacher," I say.

To my surprise, his eyebrows don’t go up, or if they do, the movement is so micro I can’t catch it. Instead, he just nods. "That actually tracks."

I blink. "It does?"

He shrugs. "You’ve got very ’faces danger with a whistle and a smile’ energy. The kind that only comes from wrangling someone else’s hellspawn all day."

That makes me laugh. "You mean the finger-paint chaos demons?"

Kevin grins, eyes sparking. "Exactly. Takes guts. You must have the patience of a saint."

I shake my head. "Oh god, no. I rely entirely on sticker charts and the threat of calling someone’s Mom."

He laughs, a deep, rolling sound, then sobers a beat. "I could never do it. I tried to coach little league once. Lasted exactly one practice and a half."

I lean closer. "What got you?"

He pretends to shudder. "Six-year-olds with metal bats. Dozens of them. In a circle. If one started swinging, it was contagion. Perfect storm every time."

For a second, I see myself on that diamond, screaming children and all, and instead of dreading it, I find myself...happy? Or at least amused. Like I’d miss it if it stopped.

Sara’s voice cuts through, toasting something up at the head of the table. I catch her looking over with a weird, half-worried, half-proud expression. When our eyes meet, she tips her chin like she’s reminding me: you can do this. This date, this dinner, this not-messing-up. I flip her off under the table, which makes her snort her drink out her nose.

A shadow flickers across my memory—wet skin, hot tub jets, a man’s hand tight on my neck. I catch myself scanning the room for something sharp-edged and unfairly beautiful. But of course Marcus isn’t here.

Maybe that’s why, when Kevin leans over and asks if I want to walk outside after dinner, I say yes. Maybe that’s why, when he lets his hand brush against mine as we pour more wine and offer to share dessert, I surprise even myself and don’t jerk away.

From across the table, Hailey gives me a closed-lipped, secret smile that says, Attagirl. Then she goes back to poking fun at Josh, who looks about two seconds from carrying her off caveman-style.

I sip the last of my wine and I glance at him sideways. "So. Honest opinion, do you regret coming?"

He shakes his head. "Not even a little."

I breathe out a small laugh, surprised. "Even with the ambush, the curated wine selection?"

"Especially because of all that," he says. "Sarah must care a great deal about you because she warned me not to screw it up."

That makes me pause.

"She said that?" I ask.

Kevin nods, nudging a crumb off his plate with the tip of his fork. "Right after she made me promise I don’t believe in star signs or refer to women as ’females.’ Then she threatened to unfriend me if I mentioned CrossFit more than once."

A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it. "She does have standards for me."

He grins. "She also said you’d probably try to make a joke before letting me know if you were actually having a good time."

I raise an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Kevin shrugs, feigning innocence. "Her words, not mine."

I toy with my wine glass, then glance up at him. "I am having a good time."

It’s quiet for a moment, not awkward—just full. Like the space between us knows not to rush the next thing.

"Good," he says finally. "Because I was starting to think you might bolt before dessert."

I tilt my head. "Depends. What kind of dessert are we talking?"

His expression turns mock-serious. "You mean Sara didn’t tell you? She made homemade chocolate tart. It’s supposed to be life-changing. Like, reevaluate-your-choices kind of good."

I feign skepticism. "Bold claim. I’ll be the judge of that. Sarah never cooked anything before marrying Matthew."

Kevin stands and offers his hand. "Come on then, Judge Rebecca. Let’s go put it to the test."

I take his hand.

And this time, I don’t think about Marcus. Not his lips, not his warm body, not the way he always made things feel like a dare.

This isn’t a dare.

It’s just a walk. A tart. A boy who listens.

My phone buzzes and my heart stops when I look at it.

Marcus: "Are you awake?"

I stare at the text. I didn’t answer his last text, so his ego must have been bruised. I don’t reply this time either.

Kevin returns with dessert. He slides a plate across the marble for me, eyebrow lifted. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," I say, pocketing my phone too quickly.

He nods, not pressing, just forks into his own slice and groans appreciatively. "Okay, Sara was right. This is maybe the best thing I’ve ever tasted."

I force a bite of my own, willing my face to behave. It is good. It’s so good. It’s also dry and gluey in my mouth, impossible to swallow with the weight of that text burning a hole in my back pocket.

Another buzz.

Marcus: "Don’t ignore me, Rebecca."

I excuse myself, claiming some urgent call from a parent, and duck out to the back deck.

"I am having dinner with friends," I write.

My thumb hovers over the screen a second longer than necessary before I hit send.

The message shoots off. I stand at the edge of the deck, it smells like damp wood and candle smoke out here. It’s kind of relaxing.

The reply comes faster than I expect.

Marcus: "Who are these friends?"

Nosy bastard.

Me: "Hailey and Josh. Who you already know. Hailey’s brother Matthew and his wife Sarah, who also happenes to be my best friend. And..."

I pause. Should I tell him?

Ehh...what the heck.

"....Kevin," I finish typing and hit send.

Three dots appear. Then vanish.

Then appear again.

Marcus: "Who is Kevin?"