Page 156 of The Fake Out Flex

My eyebrows shoot up. "It does?"

When he shook his head, I assumed he'd say no.

"It only makes me love you even more because, Evie…" His breath hitches. "I'm a virgin, too."

"You are?"

He swallows. "Yeah. And I've been in knots about telling you, hoping it wouldn't be a dealbreaker for you."

"Oh, Fraser."

I slide my hand over his face, running the tip of my finger delicately over the scar on his left cheek.

"It might sound sappy, but I only ever want to be with one girl. It's kind of a thing in my family. I want to wait until I'm married before taking that final step."

"If that's sappy, then I'm the biggest sap there is." I stare into the eyes of the man I love. "Because that's exactly what I want, too."

A smile rises on his lips. "So, we're on the same page?"

"We're in the same sentence."

We kiss again, and my heart brims with so much joy, it feels as if it could explode at any moment. I can't believe this is real. It's better than any of the possible reactions I'd pictured in my mind.

When our impromptu make-out comes to an end, I pull back and say, "I hate to break the moment, but I need to use the bathroom."

Fraser lets go of me. "No problem."

I hurry away, floating on air, swept up in the beauty of our first I love yous—the official version, not the actual first I love you which shall never be spoken of again—as well as the amazingness of being on the same page.

The same sentence.

When I return a few moments later, the change in vibe hits me instantly.

Something is off.

There's a palpable tension in the air.

Fraser is standing over my desk with his back to me. My heart begins to race as I walk up behind him.

His ears prick, and he spins around. "What is this?" he asks, his voice laced with anger.

I glance down at my desk, at the notes and photos and old newspaper clippings scattered about everywhere.

"It's not what it looks like."

"Really?" A deep line emerges between his eyebrows. "Because it looks like research. Are you…are you doing a story on me?" He lifts one of the selfies I'd printed out, the one of him and me with Oakey, and shakes it angrily in his hand. "Are you doing a story about my family?"

"No. I'm not. At least not yet. I was just?—"

"I can't believe this."

He storms past me.

I reach out, trying to grab his arm to make him stay. To make him understand that I was just putting together a pitch for a story. To explain that I would never, ever in a million years do anything without his and his family's full permission.

But it's too late.

The door slams shut with such force that it shakes the walls of my apartment.

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