Fake Dating With My Brother's Best Friend

Chapter 5 Dinner and Old Flames

Gabrielle

I stood there for a long moment, still clutching that ridiculous ceramic sculpture, my heart hammering wildly against my ribs. The steam from the bathroom was dissipating, but the heat on my cheeks refused to fade.

Caleb leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me with far too much amusement. "You okay there, little squirrel? You're looking a bit flushed. And I don't think that's from the shower steam."

"Shut up," I muttered, throwing myself back onto the bed and burying my face in the pillow. The cool cotton did little to soothe my burning skin. I could still picture those broad shoulders, the water droplets tracing paths down his chest, the way his blue eyes had locked onto mine with that unnerving intensity.

Just then, the chef Caleb had hired arrived, a portly man with a white apron and a cheerful whistle, interrupting the farce. And Caleb, quite naturally, invited Nathaniel to join us for dinner. I wanted to object, but the words died in my throat. After all, it was Caleb's house, and Nathaniel was his old friend.

Twenty minutes later, Nathaniel came downstairs, this time fully dressed. I had to admit—and I hated admitting it—a small part of me felt a flicker of disappointment. He wore a simple white t‑shirt that stretched across his shoulders, dark jeans, and a quiet elegance that didn't need to show off. His golden hair was now dry, slightly tousled, as if he'd run his fingers through it once and called it done. Without the steam and the unexpected shock, I could finally see, in his posture and the set of his jaw, echoes of the boy I had known years ago—though that boy had never carried himself with such controlled stillness.

He took the seat across from me at the long oak table, settling in as naturally as someone who had sat at the same place a hundred times before. And in a way, he had. For years, our families had dined together here, back when our parents were still alive. Nathaniel and his parents were frequent guests, the table always full of laughter and clinking glasses, the lines between our families blurred into one long, sunlit childhood.

The chef brought out the first course—a creamy pumpkin soup garnished with crisped sage. Caleb poured wine, chatting easily about Nathaniel's business ventures and the renovations he was making to the old house next door. I picked at my soup, still too flustered to eat properly.

"Thanks for having me to dinner," Nathaniel said, directing his words at Caleb, but his gaze briefly landed on me. There was something glinting there—not quite warmth, but not cold either. A flicker of acknowledgment. "I promise I'll get my water heater fixed before the weekend. I don't plan to make a habit of invading your bathroom."

"No rush," Caleb said, already reaching for another bottle from the sideboard. "You're like a brother to us. Feel free to use our place until your water heater's sorted. The guest room's always open."

Nathaniel gave a rare smile. "Thank you. When I was abroad, I often thought of you... and Gabrielle. I really miss the time we shared together."

I looked at him in slight surprise, unable to tell for a moment whether his words came from genuine sincerity or merely some polished social pleasantry.

Nathaniel looked over, and our eyes met. The seriousness in his beautiful blue eyes was gone, replaced by something else—an emotion I couldn't quite read. All I could tell was that he didn't dislike me. Probably.

He quickly averted his gaze,simply picked up his spoon and began to eat, his movements precise and unhurried. For the next few minutes, the only sounds were the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of Caleb recounting a business anecdote.

Then, as Caleb paused to refill his glass, Nathaniel looked up and caught my eyes across the table. "It's good to see you, Gabi," he said suddenly, his tone softness for the first time since we'd reunited. His voice was low, stripped of all pretense. "Really. I mean it."

He wasn't speaking with that slick, guarded attitude. I froze for a moment, caught off guard by the raw sincerity beneath the ice. Caleb shot me a pointed look, and only then did I stammer out a reply. "It's—it's good to see you too, Nathaniel."

He didn't smile, but something in his gaze softened—just a fraction. Then he returned his attention to his plate, and the moment passed.

I exhaled slowly, trying to regain my composure. Just as I reached for my water glass, my phone buzzed with a series of text alerts. At first, I ignored them, but the messages kept coming, one after another, the vibration harsh against the polished wood of the table. I muttered an apology and set down my fork, pulling the phone into my lap.

I could feel a probing gaze from across the table—Nathaniel's. His eyes were fixed on me, sharp and assessing, as if he could read the words from the glow of my screen.

But I had no energy to care who was watching me. My hand trembled slightly as I read the messages.

"b***h, what did you do? Why is Sienna breaking up with me?"

It was Vance.

The name hit me like a slap. My appetite vanished. I stared at the screen, my vision blurring. So he had come crawling back—not with an apology, but with accusations. Of course. That was who he was. That was always who he had been.

I set the phone face‑down on the table, my fingers cold. Nathaniel's gaze lingered on me a moment longer, then shifted away. He said nothing, but I noticed his jaw tighten, his grip on his fork stiffen.

Caleb, oblivious, continued chatting about the wine. But the warmth of the room suddenly felt suffocating, and all I could hear was the echo of those ugly words, buzzing like flies in my head.