Page 3 of Fake Out Forever

His gaze turns to steel. “That’s a lie.”

His eyes drift to my mouth, which shouldn’t send a wave of heat coiling through my entire body, but it does.

“I never lie.” I shoot back.

“Right. And you’re a good driver.”

Seething, I back away from him because this conversation is getting us nowhere. The man is talking to me like I’m gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Yet my body is on fire, lighting up on the inside like it’s one of those professional fireworks displays. I’m putting an end to this right now.

“We’re done here, Mr. Wylie. You have my insurance information.”

Cade stares at me in silence for a few seconds before he clomps through a snowdrift. He climbs inside his Rover, starts the engine, then hangs his head out the window. “A word to the wise, Ms. Prescott. Don’t drive in this storm.”

I watch as the taillights of his Rover fade through a curtain of snow. As much as I hate to admit it, Cade is right. Driving to Denver in the storm would be reckless. I gather what’s left of my pride and take out my cell to find a hotel.

And then I pray I will never see Cade Wylie again.

3

CADE

I keep my eyes on the windshield, refusing to look one last time at Maya Prescott. I’m not going to think about the way her expensive leather pants hug her voluptuous hips. I definitely won’t think about those full lips of hers and what I want her to do with them. And I damn sure won’t worry about her driving to Denver in a snowstorm.

Nope.

Not my problem.

I smack the turn signal and take a hard right into the City Market parking lot.

I don’t judge people.

Liar.

I grab a grocery cart, fuming at her words. Didn’t judge people? Right. I toss a bag of potatoes into the wagon. Of course, she judges people. When she turned me down for a date, she made it crystal clear: I don’t date hockey players. I pick up a bag of carrots, followed by a bag of onions, and hurl them on top of the potatoes. I move on to pick up a bunch of salad ingredients before making my way to the meat aisle.

I’m in the process of manhandling a pot roast when a bright-eyed clerk walks over wearing a nervous smile.

“You look like you could use some help,” she says, holding out one of those plastic arm baskets full of fresh produce. “You bruised all your vegetables. These are fresh.”

I glance down at the mangled carrots and crushed tomatoes. “I did a number on them, didn’t I?”

“You did.” She fishes the mutilated vegetables from my cart. “Better the produce than the person you’re thinking about.”

“True.” I chuckle. “Thank you. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“No worries.” She smiles. “Hey, have you gotten your tree for Christmas yet?”

“Can’t say that I have.” There’s no need to tell this sweet kid I don’t celebrate Christmas.

“Well, Hank’s General Store has them on sale for half-price. For every tree sold, Hank gives three-quarters of the proceeds to the Thunder Ridge senior class for their prom.”

I gingerly place four dozen eggs in the cart. “Are you a senior?”

“I am.”

“Then I’m going to Hank’s as soon as I leave here and buy two.”

“Two?” Her eyes go wide.

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