Page 5 of Fake Engaged to the Enemy

First kisses are meant to be awkward but sweet. We had the opposite experience.

I should have known it would be bad.

After all, we only kissed because I asked him.

At the time, I thought it would be a romantic moment that would open his eyes to what I felt for him.

He was older (by three months) and more experienced (he’d kissed Evie Smythe under the slide in third grade), so I thought a kiss would be the perfect way for us to get together.

Nope.

It was the weirdest, most awkward thing you could imagine.

Even worse because we were in that weird first semester of high school.

When I look back, I think that’s the moment I realized we weren’t best friends.

Oh, we’d been growing apart for some time.

Being best friends through elementary school was no promise that we’d be friends forever.

Moving into high school was a natural place for that separation to occur. Unfortunately, without the bond of friendship, things took a turn toward rivalry.

We competed for the same awards. The same scholarships. The same prestige.

If I hadn’t won a scholarship in our final year to put toward college, he would have. This meant he would have ended up in college, and I’d be the one who never left Sandburrow.

George reaches over to stop the audiobook. “Before I forget, is your arrival a secret? I mean, obviously, it won’t stay a secret, but would you like me to avoid bringing you up to the townsfolk?”

He shoots me a blinding smile.

Oh, and this is one of the reasons why I hate him so much.

He’s the sort of man that Hallmark movies are made of.

Tall, with dark hair, a gorgeous smile, a muscular frame, and eyes that glimmer like diamonds when he teases.

Add to that the flannel shirt and jeans? He’s the sort of guy that a girl would give up her big-city dreams for.

Not me, though. I won’t be taken in by him.

He acts as though he doesn’t know he’s a total heartthrob, but I’m not going to be tricked.

No. I know him, and I won’t be one of the broken hearts he leaves in his wake.

“I don’t care if you talk about me or not,” I say, shrugging nonchalantly.

He doesn’t answer.

I make myself not think about the reasons why that might be. It doesn’t matter to me! I don’t care.

We pull around the last corner, and Grandma’s house comes into view.

It’s painted sage green with darker trim around the windows and gables. The front porch holds a swinging bench as well as a patio table.

The sight of it sends a whirlwind of emotions through me.

This is where I spent the best and worst years of my life.

---