Page 78 of The Fake Out Flex

"You think yours was messy? You should've seen mine. Teenage boy rooms are the worst. And the smell. Don't even get me started on the smell."

She starts laughing as we head toward her kitchen. She grabs a vase, fills it with water, and starts arranging the yellow roses.

"So, how have you been?" I ask.

I am genuinely interested to know, but I also genuinely need something to distract me from how amazing she looks. She's in a dusty-pink loungewear set of drawstring joggers, a knitted tank top, and a cardigan that drapes loosely over her body, falling down past her hips.

I've never dated anyone who can pull off effortless chic as well as Evie does.

Okay, that last thought is a clear sign my brain is in trouble. I need to remind myself that none of this is real. We're fake dating, that's it. Get it together, man.

Shut down. Restart. Reactivate listening mode.

"…and so, I don't know, with my numbers at work flatlining despite all the attention we're getting, I'm just feeling a little blerg."

Wait. Her numbers are falling?

"How is that possible? The guys are always ribbing me at practice about some new meme featuring the two of us."

She leans against the counter. "Apparently, it's nothing personal, which I'm finding harder and harder to believe. We went through another round of focus group testing, and people just aren't into the type of stories I present."

"Are you kidding me? Yesterday's story."

"Don't talk to me about yesterday's story." Evie starts fanning her eyes. "I'll start crying."

She won't be the only one.

It was one of her best ever, about a dad who passed away from cancer when his daughter was twelve. Before he died, he prepaid a florist to deliver flowers and a note from him every year on her birthday. It's one of the most thoughtful and touching things I've ever seen.

"How can people not like your stories? It baffles me."

"Thank you for saying that. Now, if you could please stream my segments eighty-seven thousand times, that might make the network happy."

"I don't understand why your numbers are declining. Isn't the media obsessed with us?"

"Interest is starting to fade a bit," she explains. "And even though we still get a lot of traction on social media and gossip sites, that's not translating to people tuning in to my segments anymore."

I huff out an annoyed breath, hating this so much. She's so freaking talented, and her stories are so freaking good.

"Is there anything I can do?"

With a playful twinkle in her eye and a roguish grin, she begins, "Well?—"

"Besides streaming your segments eighty-seven thousand times?" I cut in since that's where I know she's heading. "Something that's, you know, actually doable?"

She hesitates for a moment, then says, "There isn't, but thank you for the offer. Come on. Let's go into the living room."

"Uh…"

She stops walking. "Uh, what?"

"Aren't you making dinner?"

"I am."

"Doesn't dinner-making normally take place in the kitchen? Or do normal food-preparation rules not apply in Evie Land?"

"Oh, Fraser."

---