Page 3 of Fake Hearts and Kisses

I step aside, shooting him a look. “No more real kisses, Blake.”

He winks. “That’s right, we only do fake kisses this weekend.”

“No kisses!” I hiss. “We agreed to no funny business.”

“I didn’t hear either of us laughing.” He gives me another smirk as he pulls the door fully open. “Let’s go make this Erin feel awkward.”

I groan in frustration. Awkward indeed. NowI’mawkward. This was not the plan. The plan was forus to ensure that Erin would gossip with everyone about how my fake boyfriend is hot, in love with me, and amazing in bed. Then, maybe, just maybe, my parents would leave me alone, and Lily would stop treating me like the boring teacher I really am. I follow Blake out to the large front porch and stop in horror at the person shutting the door to the cabin that’s butted up to ours.

This is the worst possible scenario. My entire face heats in horror.

“Sounds like you guys christened the room already,” our neighbor says as he extends his hand to Blake. “You must be Blake. I’m Forest, Daisy’s brother.”

CHAPTER TWO

BLAKE

Two Days Ago

The small coffee househas become my favorite spot in the last few weeks. It’s not the coffee—I don’t even like coffee—or the pretty little pastries on display that keep me coming back every Wednesday, Friday, and sometimes Sunday mornings. Actually, I’m here every Sunday, but sometimes the reason I am here is not. Some Sundays, she doesn’t show herface at all.

Today she is, and she’s with the petite girl that comes with her every Wednesday. Daisy is why this place is now my new favorite spot to get the coffee I don’t like and pretend to read the book that sits on the table in front of me. I take another sip of coffee, keeping my face even. The stuff still tastes like brown piss water even though I put four sugar packets in it. I set the cup down and focus on what Daisy is saying. The small woman with her—I can’t remember her name to save my life—keeps touching her arm, making little sympathetic sounds. I bet it has something to do with Daisy’s sister, who she’s constantly talking about.

I try to focus on their words, picking up the book so I don’t stare. Sometimes I catch myself staring, and I’m worried Daisy will notice. That’s why I bring a book. So I can listen and pretend to be immersed in the pages, so I’m not caught watching Daisy’s every move. It’s hard not to. She’s absolutely perfect. The curve of her hips, her small waist, and tiny breasts. The softness of her cheeks and the little dimple that forms on her right cheek when she smiles. Her full pink lips and those stunning green eyes that look like she’s caging something wild inside her. Even her hair, a honey brown that would seem dull on another woman, is silky and lovely. Everything about her is lovely. I could sit next to her for hours and watch her prettyfeatures as she laughs, running my fingers through her hair. I’ve thought about it a lot more than I should have. Weaving my fingers in her hair. Licking her skin. How she’d sound as she breathed my name. There have even been a few times I’ve gotten so hard just thinking about her that I’ve jerked off to the images of her sweet mouth and green eyes.

When I think about it that way, it seems really creepy. A bit stalker-ish, too.

I frown. Note to self. If you ever work up the nerve to talk to Daisy, never mention you have jerked off thinking about her before you even knew her name.

“It’s a really shitty thing to say,” the small friend says. “I mean, she’s your sister.”

Of course. The sister. It’s always the sister. I wonder what insult she’s slung at Daisy this week. Wait. Not an insult. I remember now. Daisy was saying this past Sunday it was shitty of her sister to have a Conner Gathering on Valentine’s Day. Why Daisy is complaining, I don’t know. From what I’ve overheard Daisy say about her, this fits with her sister’s personality. She must be a real shit to force her friends and family to rearrange their plans and travel right before Valentine’s Day.

“What’s worse is that I’m going stag,” Daisy says. “I don’t even have a boyfriend to take.”

“I’ll go with you,” the woman says.

Fuck, what is her name?I’m usually good with names and faces, but this woman is… unremarkable next to Daisy. Every woman I’ve seen since her isn’t worth remembering.

“Don’t worry, Trish,” Daisy pats her friend’s hands. “I don’t expect you to take this weekend off to come with me.”

Trish. Okay. Her best friend’s name is Trish. What a fucking dumb name. It’s no wonder I couldn’t remember.

“You know I will.” Trish sips her coffee and looks over at me.

Fuck, I’m staring. I blink, shifting my eyes to focus on the board above her head. She looks behind her and sees the large menu. Hopefully, she thinks I’m just staring at the menu and completely focused on what other shitty coffee drink I want and not on them.

“I think it’d be worse if I showed up with my best friend instead of some smoking hot guy that adores me,” Daisy says. “It’ll just prove what my parents already think.”

How could they not think she’s the most talented and fascinating person? They created her. They should be proud to have a teacher for a daughter and not another empty-headed bleached blonde like her sister who designs ugly-ass clothing for uninteresting people with too much money. Plus, she writes.She has spent hours here, drinking coffee and scribbling in journals. Lily doesn’t write. Lily is generic and apparently cruel. Not that I’ve met her sister, but from listening to Daisy talk about her, I can already tell Lily isn’t someone I would like. She bleaches her pretty brown hair, so it looks more silver than the golden honey color of Daisy’s.

Okay, another note to self: Don’t mention that you looked Daisy up on social media or that you crept all over her sister’s profiles and business website. At least not before you get her number. That would sound bad. Really bad. Oh, and never, ever tell her you followed her to the coffee shop after you first saw her at the library two months ago. That will not go over very well.

I couldn’t help myself. That day, I was using the library computers, gathering information on a client when she walked in. The library computers make it harder to link back to me, so I’m there often. With all the times I’ve been there, I have never seen Daisy. At first glance, she isn’t the sort of woman I typically go after. I lean more towards the dark and troubled type. The ones with daddy issues and a mean streak. A woman who enjoys a night of fucking. One who knows how to walk away, no questions asked. Something about Daisy made me look twice.

Then a third time,afterI told myself she was not my type.

I think it was her hair. It’s weird to be obsessed with a woman’s hair, but hers looks like silk. My first instinct was to grab that silky hair in my fist, pulling her roughly against me, so her mouth formed a smallohof surprise, and then let each strand fall through my fingers. Slowly.

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