Page 167 of Shy Girls Can't Fake Date

“What was that?” Parker asks.

I blow out a breath, tossing my phone on the table.

Parker shifts in his seat. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. It’s just better that Tess doesn’t know what’s happening between us.”

“Because it’ll be easier when you start dating Lewis?”

Definitely not. “Plus, she’s not living here. There’s no need to mess with her head.”

“Sure. I wish my brothers were in another town.”

“Don’t get me wrong. Tess and I get along great. I just don’t think she’d approve.”

“Your parents don’t know we’re a fake couple. She wouldn’t have to know either.”

“It’s complicated.” I get up and move toward the fridge. “I’ll check if we have any cherries, or I’ll text Mom to get some from the store.”

“You can pick another recipe, if you want,” Parker says, bringing my phone to the kitchen counter.

“No, it’s okay,” I say, moving to the pantry. “I’d like to wow your parents.”

Parker mumbles a laugh. “Why?”

“It’s practice for me meeting a boyfriend’s parents.”

“You already know Lewis’s parents.”

“Not as a girlfriend. It’s different stakes.” I pull out a jar of maraschino cherries. “Eureka.”

After skimming the ingredients list, I arrange all my supplies on the kitchen counter. Parker keeps commenting on how I don’t need to worry about the cake turning out perfect, but I refuse to listen. Even if we’re pretending, I’m determined to make a good impression with his family. Plus, there’s no way I’m letting rumors circulate that I brought them a sub-par cake.

I ask Parker to help measure out ingredients, and he does so heavy-handedly.

“I’ve seen you in chemistry,” I say. “You’re usually so precise. Why are you making such a mess?”

“Maybe I care about the class more than I care about a cake for my family.”

I take possession of the measuring cups. “Well I care.”

I measure out the rest of the ingredients and let Parker add them into the mixing machine. I ask him to turn it on a low setting, and then the machine emits a loud buzz. Flour erupts from the mixing bowl, dusting the countertop.

I deadpan him. “I said low.”

He laughs, turning off the machine. “Oh man. Your face.”

“Do I literally have to do everything?”

“Hey, I’m helping,” he says, sweeping the flour off the counter with his hands.

“Oh my gosh. You’re just making more of a mess.”

He cups the flour, spilling it because he’s laughing more.

I turn him toward the kitchen sink. “Can you at least get some of the flour in there?”

He dusts off his hands. “I’m sorry, Kylie. I’ll get it together.”

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