Page 102 of The Fake Out Flex

Fraser looks like he just stepped off a runway in Paris or Milan, not schlepped in on an American Airlines cross-country flight.

His zip-up black hoodie opens to reveal a dark-gray shirt, his form-fitting denim fits his form very nicely, molding to his muscular legs, and he's wearing white low-tops. The look is quintessential Fraser—athletic, comfortable, and undeniably sexy.

"Feel better?" he asks.

"Yes, but more importantly, I look better."

He makes his way to the couch. "I liked your look from before. Wet hair is all the rage these days."

I laugh. "Unlike the term all the rage, which very much is not."

"Hey, I'm secretly a forty-five-year-old dude who wishes he could time travel back to the '90s, remember?"

I smile, but it quickly disappears when I notice my laptop left open on the coffee table. I quickly shut it as we take a seat, and I tuck it into the side of the couch. I can brainstorm ideas to save my career some other time.

"Start at the beginning. Why are you here?"

"I was worried about you."

"Me?"

"Yes. I've developed a sixth sense for picking up on when you're pretending to be happy even though you're not. It happened at jerkface's wedding. You do it whenever the subject of your mother comes up. And you did it over the phone last night when we talked about your meeting with your boss."

"That just proves you're an Evie-whisperer. It doesn't answer my question about why you flew halfway across the country to see me."

"It totally does."

"No. It doesn't." I lift my chin. "I can pretend I'm fine over the phone just as well as I can to your face."

"My, my, my. How little faith you have in me, Evie." His lips curve into a suggestive smirk. "You honestly didn't think I'd come here on my own without reinforcements, did you?"

I blink. "Actually, I did."

There's a knock on the door. Fraser shoots to his feet. "I'll get it."

"Sure," I mutter to myself since he's already out of the room. "Don't mind me. I just live here."

What is happening?

Surely he can't be serious—that he bailed in the middle of a game week to fly all this way and see me.

Can he?

"Evie, close your eyes," he says from the entryway. "I don't want you seeing my secret weapon until I'm ready."

I close my eyes, trying not to smile at the absurdity and kookiness and loveliness of it all.

"Fine. My eyes are shut."

"No peeking?"

"No peeking."

"All right, then."

With my vision gone, my other senses pick up. Specifically, my sense of smell.

"You didn't…?" I begin, my eyes still firmly closed.

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