Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 668(@200wpm)___ 535(@250wpm)___ 446(@300wpm)
“It’s like a game within a game? I am definitely here for that. So what do you have in mind? If I squeeze your ass too hard do I have to make you Christmas cookies?”
A laugh falls from his lips. “As a matter of fact that sounds like a perfect consequence. I might be rooting for us to fail then.”
“Nah. You’d never root for that. Even if you like cookies and cheek squeezes.”
He laughs. “True. Very true. Here’s another. If you tell a ridiculous story about me that feels unbelievable, I get two hours to relax in front of the fireplace.”
He deserves time to relax. I almost want to tell a silly story to give him that moment. But I wouldn’t sabotage us. “Fair. And if you call me by a nickname that is certifiably sickeningly cutesy, I get a massage. I do love massages,” I say, wiggling in the seat and saying deeply, in pre-appreciation for a massage, “I don’t get nearly enough spa days. I wouldn’t mind more of them.”
“I should find a spot to send you to if that happens. In Evergreen Falls?” He takes his eyes off the road for a second, looking at me like maybe he’d rather not send me to a spa—that he’d rather touch me himself.
My breath catches unexpectedly from his gaze. “Unless you’re offering,” I say before I even have a chance to think about the temptation of those words. “You are good with your hands.”
He growls, low and rumbly, deep in his throat. Perhaps that was too risqué, especially since we agreed what happened on his desk was a momentary lapse of reason. A one-time practice.
His voice lowers to a smokier tone. “And I like using them…on you.”
My skin tingles. I might like this naughty or nice list too much. “Now I kind of want you to call me a nickname that’s sickeningly cute,” I say, a little tease in my tone, like a sexy invitation.
He’s quiet. Focusing dead straight on the road. His hands grip the wheel tighter as if he’s fighting off the urge to say me too.
Or maybe I’m imagining that’s the battle he’s waging.
For a few miles we’re silent, perhaps both processing the list. What it means to be naughty and nice together. What it means to be over the top in a fake relationship and what it means to be real.
Perhaps, most of all, what it means to break the rules we’ve set for ourselves—a momentary lapse of reason.
Which raises a question. “What if we’re just good at it? What if we’re believable and authentic? Can I still make you a hot cocoa?” I ask.
He steals a glance my way as we pass the rolling green hills of Novato. “I would love that,” he says, so earnestly it makes my heart go soft.
I give in to another impulse, this one to set a hand on his arm. “You probably haven’t had one since last Christmas.”
“That’s true.”
“Then maybe that should be an addendum to our naughty and nice list. If we’re believable—truly believable—we’ll have hot cocoa together some night just like you wanted.”
“That sounds nice too,” he says, like he’s fighting to keep the vulnerability out of his voice—fighting but failing. I hate that he feels he can’t be vulnerable with me.
If we weren’t driving, I might scoot closer, rest my head on his shoulder. Instead, I lift my hand and gently run it across the hair just above his ear. “Does that feel real?”
He shudders. Subtly, but still, it’s there. “Yes,” he admits.
I shouldn’t do this while he’s driving. I really shouldn’t. I’m not even sure if it’s the competition spurring me on or something else entirely. Something I’m just beginning to grapple with. But I do it anyway. I set my hand on his arm, giving a gentle rub of his shoulder. “How about that?”
“Real,” he mutters, his jaw tight.
I move my hand on the denim of his jeans, just above his knee. Like a girlfriend would. “Authentic?”
He takes a beat for a quarter-mile stretch of the road. Then, he says in a barren whisper, “Perfect.”
I’m tempted to leave my hand right here for the rest of the drive—for authenticity’s sake and all—but when his phone rings and the name Mom flashes across the screen, I rip my hand off him.
25
ONE OF THOSE NEWFANGLED SITUATIONSHIPS
Wilder
I’m wavering. I don’t usually waver.
But then again, my mom doesn’t usually call when my fake girlfriend is in the car. My fake girlfriend who’s feeling more real by the minute. My fake girlfriend who knows I don’t want to lie to my mother.
Still, my finger hovers by the answer button on the car’s dash.
Fable looks at me with concern, then says, “I can just be quiet. She doesn’t have to know I’m here.”
The thought sends my mind reeling. Reminds me of my father and his lies. The way he hid his whereabouts when he went out and gambled. How he’d call from quieter places to hide the fact that he was in a casino. My heart squeezes with a wave of emotion for Fable. For her willingness to make this easy for me. For her eagerness to help. But I won’t ask her to double lie by pretending she’s not even in the car.