Page 42 of The Best Friend Power Play

The sharpness in his voice startles me.

He pushes his bowl away and clears his throat. "There is no one better than you, Hannah. Don't you see? That's why I'm so conflicted about you marrying a schmuck like me when the right guy, someone who has his life sorted and can treat you the way you deserve to be treated, could be right around the corner."

We've had a version of this conversation every day this week. Mainly it's been Culver checking in and reassuring me I don't have to do this, that he won't be upset if I back out.

But he's never said anything like this before.

I don't know how to process it.

I reach across the table and wrap my hands around his massive fingers. "You are not a schmuck," I say. "Schmucks don't color-coordinate their outfits as well as you do."

He smiles, but it's small and dimple-free.

"And also," I continue. "You're the kindest, sweetest, most thoughtful person I know. I want to do this. I am doing this. We're best friends, and what are best friends for if not to help each other out when times call for a little fake marriage?"

"That feels so good." My eyes are closed, and my body is melting into the sofa. "Don't ever stop."

If living with Culver this past week has taught me anything, it's that dinner is not the pinnacle of my evening.

This is.

We finished our meal outside, cleaned up, and assumed our usual positions on the couch.

But before we dive into our nightly binge watch, I get treated to one of the most heavenly pleasures on earth—a foot rub.

I don't know how he does it, or why it feels so good, but the man knows how to work his fingers.

On my foot.

Although…if he's this talented with my foot, imagine what he could be like with?—

"Pressure okay?"

I let out a small gasp as he runs his finger over an especially tight spot. "Yeah. Perfect."

Why is my brain insisting on going places I cannot go with Culver?

Before I can unpack that, my phone dings on the coffee table.

"That's a text from me," he says.

I crack open an eye. "You're massaging my feet and texting at the same time?"

"And they say men can't multitask." He grins. "Since I still think the photo you sent me of Katie's list is cropped, even though you deny it, I've created a shared document with you. A new list. That way we both have access to it and can update it in real time as we come up with more ideas. You'll see that I've added nightly foot rubs to it." A slight pause. "I hope that's okay?"

I reach over, pick up my phone, and smile as I open the file. Yep, he's added it to the list. "I suppose I'll survive somehow."

He's been asking me about the cropped list photo I sent him, and I keep telling him that there is nothing else there. I cannot—repeat cannot—admit I added losing my virginity to the list. It's the one thing, the only thing, I can't reveal to him.

"You'll also see that I've moved checking out the purple carpet to the top of the list. I did some research online, and this time of year is the best time to see it."

The purple carpet is a stunning natural phenomenon known as a superbloom. Entire hillsides and fields get blanketed in wildflowers—the most noteworthy is the purple lupine—and it creates the effect of the entire landscape looking like a purple carpet. It's a huge tourist draw, yet despite it being a less than an hour's drive from Comfort Bay, I've never seen it.

"Sounds great," I say. "So we get married next weekend, and then the weekend after that, we'll go see the purple carpet."

The pressure he's applying on my foot increases.

"Yeah." A line forms between his brows. "But after the wedding, Hannah, I promise you every weekend is going to be about you."

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