Page 154 of The Fake Out Flex

I freeze—Macaulay Culkin in "Home Alone" style—my wide eyes staring back at me in the mirror.

Oh, no.

No, no.

No, no, no, no, noooooo!

21

Evie

Fraser loves me.

He did just say that, didn't he? I didn't mishear him.

Granted, he is recovering from a dinner with my family, so maybe he's not in the right mental state to be making such an important declaration.

Or the best physical state, either.

He looked like he was in considerable pain in the car, and the way he hotfooted it into the bathroom—he moved faster than he does on the ice during a game.

But surely yelling out something along the lines of, I'm going to murder the chef, or I'm never getting dragged to another Freeman family dinner ever again would have been more appropriate, wouldn't it?

Admitting you love someone when you're in the throes of major stomach pain? Is that even a thing? I need to find my phone and do some googling.

Before I can, I'm stopped in my tracks. A still squeamish-looking Fraser is resting against the wall.

"Are you standing like that because you can no longer feel your legs?"

"Almost. I am so, so, so sorry you had to witness that."

"It's all good. I once had a guinea pig who used to poop everywhere all the time."

Fraser cocks his head to the side. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Yes. Question mark?"

He manages a small smile. "And I'm also sorry that the first time I told you that I love you was when I was sitting on the toilet."

Houston, we have confirmation.

"Wow."

When I leave it at that for a few beats too long, Fraser takes a tentative step toward me. "Good wow? Bad wow? Get out of my house I never want to see you again wow? Help me out here, Evie."

"The first option."

Now, I've seen Fraser smile before.

When he scores a goal.

When his team wins a game.

When he's with Oakey.

But I have never seen the type of joy that's radiating off him right now.

He looks like he just won the Stanley Cup, the lottery, and the Super Bowl all at once.

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