Page 35 of The Fake Out Flex

Entering through the door and not the window, for a change.

He steps in, his eyes darting around the space, and I wonder if he's having the same sense of nostalgia I am.

Probably not.

Why would he?

Absolutely nothing ever happened between us. He just needed a place to escape filming and vent, and my bedroom was that place.

The bedroom. Not me.

Important distinction.

His intense gaze rolls around to me. "Wow, Evie. You look…breathtaking."

"Don't lie. You prefer the hockey jersey and Ugg Boots, don't you? You can admit it. I won't be offended."

"I'm so relieved," he says, wiping imaginary sweat off his brow. "Any chance you can get changed? It's going to be torture for me, looking at you in that dress all day."

“You're not the only one who's going to suffer. Look at you in that suit."

Yes.

Can we please take a minute and look at him in that deep-navy-blue classically tailored suit? How it accentuates his broad shoulders and muscular physique? The crisp white dress shirt underneath contrasts perfectly with the dark hue of the suit, and the electric-blue tie brings out his summer-sky blue eyes.

His hair, usually tousled and damp under his helmet during games, is styled neatly. He's clean-shaven, which makes the scar on his cheek more prominent.

And he's got a confident ease about him, like he's dropped the guarded, brooding persona he adopts on the ice and is letting his natural charisma shine through.

Like this is who he really is. The person he let me see all those years ago.

But that's in the past now.

Today, he's simply in handsome revenge-date man-candy mode, just like he promised he'd be.

He produces something from behind his back.

Flowers.

Yellow roses, to be precise.

Again.

Which is twice more than Bryce ever did. Not that I'm keeping score.

"I seem to have developed this bad habit of buying flowers for you."

"You're a monster. Where can I report you?"

He lets out a light chuckle. "Is your vase in the same spot?"

"Uh, I assume so."

Mom has kept my room pretty much how I left it when I went away to college.

Fraser strides over to my desk, crouches down, and reaches behind it. Smiling, he produces the vase and lifts it onto the desk, setting the flowers down beside it.

"I'm impressed," I say.

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