Page 98 of The Fake Dating War

“Good tears?” he asks, still out of breath, but as if heneedsto know.

“Victorious tears.”

We grin at each other, and then make quick work of leaving the shower since our skin is starting to get pruny. Somehow, he has the strength to carry me back to bed. There, I’m brought to orgasm not once but three times, as if his one needs to equal multiples of mine. The last one has me wrung out on the bed, completely reduced to sheer bliss. Almost so thoroughly that I can’t register the soft warning bells in the distance.

The problem is that Ilikehim. More than a little.

I don’t even think I liked Harry. Many times I thought I loved him, but I don’t think I ever liked him. Whatever is happening between Jake and me has the possibility to disturb every protective layer I’ve wrapped myself with these last two years.

And yet, I can’t stop touching him. He seems to suffer the same, the way his hands won’t stop stroking my skin. When he cups my belly, it grumbles.

He strokes it gently. “What are you craving?”

I spout off a list of all that comes to my mind for fun, but tell him anything with carbs will do.

He goes to the phone and orders everything on my list. Unfortunately, they only have three out of the six items, but it’s more than enough. I overhear him telling them to charge it to his room, but to deliver it here.

Before the food arrives, I check in with my sister. Technically, Jake and I have missed out on a few ceremonies that were supposed to take place this evening. Nibbles of guilt eat at me, but those go away when my sister informs me that she cancelled most of them, and that everyone is still sleeping off the drinking. She tells me to get enough rest so we can properly party tomorrow for thebig shebang. Her blow-out reception.

Leo has also texted me. He’s staying in a new place with more cell service, so his message is longer. He’s not asking if I fucked Jake (good, because I’m not ready to admit that I have) but is generally checking in to see how the wedding is going, and how I’m doing emotionally.

I send him a thumbs-up emoji followed by a cake emoji because I am a mature adult who can face and confess her feelings, no matter how complicated they get.

After that, I wait for awkwardness to descend as Jake and I wait for food, but the mood isquiet contentment,notscreaming weirdness.It helps that he is so task focused. He is trying to tidy without being obvious about it, adorably gathering our clothes so they aren’t strewn everywhere. Not wanting to scare the food delivery person, he pulls on pants. I wear a terry-cloth robe.

When Jake has cleaned enough and starts poking at the crooked painting hanging on the wall, I throw a crumpled up shirt at him.

Instead of hitting his face, he catches it. His aim is better. The bundle bops me back in the nose.

That won’t do.

A competitive game of catch starts—because can we ever stop riling each other up?—only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. Carbs have arrived and saved us from ourselves.

Jake tries setting up the food on the bed, but I don’t let him. I tell him that’s my personal ick, which seems to surprise him. When I say I’m not a savage, I can tell he wants to disagree but doesn’t. Not that I would put up much of a debate. I’m too busy funneling spaghetti into my mouth.

Only after we’ve cleared most of it do I feel like I’ve got energy again. So much so that I tidy the plates before he can, batting away his help.

“Was your sister okay?” he asks. “With us not making an appearance tonight?”

“She didn’t bother going herself. The whole day tired her out as much as anyone.”

“I noticed she wasn’t drinking.”

Of course he had. “She’s pregnant,” I say, surprising myself by sharing the secret.

“Oh—that’s great, right?”

“It is! I don’t think it was planned, but they seem really excited for it.”

“Do your parents know?”

“I don’t think they do. Not that they are old-fashioned enough to be disappointed by the lack of order of things. You know. Typically marriage first, then kids.” I shrug. “To be fair, I think my history broke them out of that expectation.”

His gaze sharpens on me. “Yes, the mystery of two years ago. Are you going to tell me what happened there?”

A mix of worry and nervousness starts bubbling inside me. Why did I bring up my history? I hadn’t planned on doing that, but I’m so relaxed it just happened.

“I’m surprised you lasted this long without drilling me about it,” I finally say.

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