Page 121 of Fake Out Hearts

I shake my head and sit down on Becca’s other side. “What did we settle on?” I ask since the opening credits are already rolling.

“The Mario movie!” Jake answers enthusiastically. “It’s my favorite.”

“Does that mean you’ve already seen it?”

“He told me he has it memorized, so we’ll see how much he remembers,” Becca says with a smile as I snuggle up against her. We settle into the movie, which is cute and pretty funny, and it turns out Jake does in fact have the majority of it memorized.

About halfway through the movie though, Becca’s phone vibrates in her pocket. It’s resting against my leg, so I feel it too. She pulls it out to check it, and a few seconds later, she grimaces.

“What’s up?” I whisper, not that Jake would notice as he’s reciting the movie line by line. Rather than answer, Becca turns the screen to me, and as soon as I see Kaplan’s name on it, my mood sours.

SHAWN: I want to talk to you. I owe you an apology.

I grab the phone from her and immediately start typing out a reply.

BECCA: It’s Camden. That’s the least of what you owe Becca, but she doesn’t need shit from you—not even an apology. She has everything she needs with me.

I send the text and tap into his contact info to block his number, then pass the phone back to Becca. She looks unsettled by the whole interaction, so I put my arm around her shoulder and pull her into me. My body immediately responds to her proximity, but I know that’s not the real reason my heart is hammering.

It’s just… her.

Noah and Reese were right. Nothing about this is fake.

Chapter 37

Becca

I toss down the pen I’ve been gripping like my life depends on it and sigh.

How am I ever going to do this?

The more I think about and list out all the little logistical details that would go into opening a dance school of my own, the more my head hurts. It’s not something I would’ve ever pursued before, but after Curtain Call canceled my contract, Theo really put a bug in my ear about it. I want to believe it’s possible, but it feels so far out of reach.

How am I going to get funding? And how am I going to find and lease a place big enough? And then what about recruiting students? With my recently tarnished reputation, no thanks to Shawn, it’s not like parents are going to be lining up to leave their kids alone with me. That’s what got my contract canceled, after all, and people aren’t going to just forget about it.

My stomach rumbles, distracting me. Good thing Theo’s at practice so he can’t hear it. Still, I don’t want him worrying about me not eating again and I don’t want to take another trip to the emergency room, so I decide to take a break from my planning to make something to eat.

There are plenty of leftovers from all the stuff that Theo’s been cooking lately. For every less than stellar dish, there are at least three amazing ones now. He’s getting really good at cooking—no doubt thanks to all the cookbooks he’s been buying.

One of them is still lying open on the counter by the fridge, and when I peek at it, I see that he’s got notes written all over in the margins in his distinct, almost boyish chicken scratch. Some are corrections to ingredient amounts, while others are little reminders to himself of what not to do. For this baked lemon chicken recipe, he scribbled,Forty minutes at four hundred degrees is way too long. Burnt to a crisp.

I chuckle and open the fridge. Each of the little plastic containers has a note of some kind attached to the top in the same handwriting. At first, I assume they’re labels of what’s inside, but when I get closer, I see that they’re short notes to me. I reach for the nearest one, a fettucine alfredo that Theo made a few nights ago, and read the note on top.

I know you said you always wanted to go to Italy, so here’s my attempt to bring a little bit of Italy to you. I’ll take you there someday, and you can find out what REAL Italian food should taste like. I promise.

A laugh softly to myself, a smile breaking out across my face.

I love that he pays attention to little details about me like that—and that he thought to leave a note about it. It amazes me that someone can be this attentive, that he cares about me enough to do something like this. He really does make me feel like the princess he insists I am.

I take the container out and empty the contents on a plate to reheat it in the microwave. We have way more food in the house now than either of us will ever be able to eat, but it’s so nice not having to worry about cooking anything. I’ve always hated cooking, mostly because of the time it takes and the cleanupafterward. But Theo, the budding home chef, takes care of it all—just like he promised me he would.

I’m just pulling the alfredo out of the microwave when Milo appears in the kitchen. I don’t know where he’s been, but his eyes are still heavy and crusted with sleep, so I bet he’s been upstairs in bed. The smell of the food must have woken him up because he’s staring up at me and whimpering.

“No, boy, this isn’t for doggies,” I say as I maneuver around him, but he whimpers again. “Okay, okay, how about a treat?” Milo barks his approval, so I set my plate down on the kitchen island and grab a dog biscuit from a box we keep on the counter by the stove. Milo runs in circles excitedly, but I don’t give him the bone right away.

“Alright, boy, can you sit for me?” I ask, hiding the biscuit behind my back. “Sit?” I tap his behind with my free hand to try to encourage him, but he just keeps staring up at me with his adorable puppy dog face tilted to one side. “If you can’t sit, you can’t have a treat.”

Milo’s nose leads him to my rear, and I try to spin to keep the biscuit hidden, but he moves with me. Clearly, this isn’t going to work, and my food is getting cold, so I eventually give in and drop the biscuit into his waiting jaws. He devours it in a few chews, and I sigh.

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