Page 48 of The Small-Town Seduction Plan

“Credit from who?” Duke shoots back. “If the only reason someone cares about anything is because it’s the new hot trend, or all their friends are saying so, then that’s credit I can do without.”

Duke slices away at his steak, stone-faced.

Crap.

I’ve clearly said the wrong thing, but I can’t think how. I try to ask more questions, about favorite past projects, and how he learned his trade, but Duke just answers in monosyllables. His relaxed smiles and easy banter is a distant memory, no matter how hard I work to lighten the conversation again.

The grumpy Duke Hendricks is back– to stay.

Finally, I give up on conversation, and just finish my food. It’s rich, and heavy, and I can only manage a few bites before pushing my plate away.

“Ready to go?” Duke asks.

Asking for the dessert menu at this point would just prolong the awkwardness. “Sure,” I agree. “And since this is technically a business expense, I can get the check.”

Duke gives me a glare.

“Or not…” I add quickly, “whatever you want.”

What Duke wants is clearly to be done with this whole fake date evening. He settles our bill, and practically power walks back to the truck without a backwards glance. Luckily, the paparazzi are long gone, and nobody’s there to see me open my own passenger door, and haul myself up into the cab.

We drive in silence back to Blackberry Cove.

I stifle a sigh. If this is what it’s going to be like for the rest of summer, I should just take my chances on the tabloids alone. All the tension has my stomach churning, and any minute now, I’m expecting Duke to announce he’s through with our whole fake relationship, and breaking it off with me for real. No more forced, awkward dates, and curt bickering.

No more heart-stopping, fevered kisses…

My stomach flips over at the memory– but not in a good way.

I gulp, feeling a sudden wave of nausea rising in my gut. Crap. I realize to my horror that it hasn’t been the tension making me sick to my stomach; it was the damn seafood!

I panic. “Umm, Duke?” I try to swallow the acrid sting in the back of my throat. “How far is the cottage?”

“Only a couple more miles.”

I stifle a whimper. There’s no “only” about it.

“I can’t last that long!” I manage to blurt. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Seriously?” Duke looks over, frowning.

“No, I just like to joke about vomiting in front of complete strangers!” I wail. “Yes, I’m serious. You have to pull over!”

“Shit.” Duke curses. “Look, my place is closer. Think you can make it that far?”

I whimper. “I’ll try.”

He hits the gas, and soon we’re pulling up outside a converted barn-type building on the outskirts of Blackberry Cove. To be honest, the details are a blur as I wrench open the truck door, tumble out, and follow Duke blindly to the door.

“There’s a bathroom that way—” he says, but I’m already racing down the hall.

I make it just in time.

Ugh.

I yank the flush and sink back, recovering. I’m sweaty, miserable– and humiliated, but still, it gets worse when I hear Duke clear his throat behind me.

“Avery?”

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