Page 53 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

Daphne sighed, rolling her head on the headrest so she could look at him. “I’ll come to yours,” she conceded, and Calvin had to fight to hide the satisfaction that washed over him. “But only because I’m exhausted, and you’re right about the stairs. As soon as I get some crutches and get more mobile, I’m going home.”

“Deal,” he said, and started driving.

Real estate agents would describe Calvin’s home as the worst house on the best street. He’d inherited the three-bed, one-bath bungalow from his father’s estate, and the neighborhood had grown and improved around it in the years he’d been gone. As he pulled up to the small worn-down home, a familiar tug pulled at his chest.

The house was familiar and unfamiliar all at once. It was layered with memories of his early youth, when things had been good, and the later years, when they hadn’t. Stepping through the door the first time a few weeks ago had been surreal.

Now, it felt almost normal.

He helped Daphne up the path and through the front door. She leaned on his arm as she glanced around the foyer. His shoes were lined up as they always were. When he opened the closet, she peered inside at the jackets hanging within. He added his own, then hers, making sure to evenly space the hangers before closing the closet door.

Daphne watched him; then she swung her gaze to the living room. “You’re very tidy,” she noted.

He followed her gaze. He’d gotten rid of all his mother’s knickknacks, given the place a thorough cleaning, and set himself up as comfortably as he could. Couch, coffee table, TV, and fireplace in the corner. The remotes were lined up at the edge of the coffee table. His throw blanket was folded over the arm of the sofa.

“I like things to be neat,” he said, which wasn’t much of an explanation. The truth was his teenage years had been marked with such chaos that he now felt the need to keep his life as orderly as possible. Messes set him on edge. Clutter raised his blood pressure.

Things had designated places, and Calvin made sure that’s where they stayed. He had routines and habits that kept him on the straight and narrow. Deviating from them felt too close to that out-of-control tailspin that had led him down the path of self-destruction all those years ago.

Daphne smiled at him, and it wasn’t the razor-sharp smirk or the reluctant grin she’d sometimes try to bite back. It was a genuine look of appreciation. “I like things to be neat too,” she said, and allowed him to help her to the couch. His hands lingered on her shoulders as he helped her settle. For a woman who was so strong, who had such a massive presence in his life these days, she seemed too fragile right now.

“Hungry?” he asked.

“Starving.”

He nodded. A strange kind of satisfaction spread through him at the thought of having her in his home. Taking care of her. Making sure she was fed and rested.

There were half a dozen pizza places on the island, but only one of them was worth buying from. Calvin left Daphne on the couch with ice on her ankle, a blanket, and a glass of ice water, then ducked back out into the rain to pick up their pies.

Thirty minutes later, after a drive to the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant housed down a side road on the outskirts of Carlisle, Calvin was in possession of two Neapolitan-style pizzas. He nudged his front door open and found Daphne asleep on the couch, the TV playing an old rerun ofFriendswhile her ice pack dribbled onto the rug below.

She blinked her eyes open when he walked in, looking like a sleepy little owl staring at him from behind her blanket. “I fell asleep,” she said in a drowsy voice, as if he hadn’t noticed.

Calvin’s heart gave a squeeze. There was a kind of intimacy to the moment, a stillness that felt precious and breakable. “You want to go to bed?”

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “No. I want food.”

He hummed and set the boxes down on the coffee table before grabbing a new dish towel with which to wrap her ice pack. Daphne shifted on the sofa to give him room to sit down, but as soon as he did, the old, broken-down cushions dipped, and she fell into his side.

He froze for a second, but Daphne didn’t jump back from him. She just leaned forward to grab a slice of pizza, then settled back against the sofa, her side pressed firmly against his. Twitching the blanket so it covered his legs, Calvin grabbed a slice for himself. Daphne turned up the volume, and they chuckled as Ross made a disaster out of leather pants, baby powder, and lotion.

When the next episode came on, Daphne shifted, and her head dropped onto his shoulder. The weight of it was comforting, the scent of her hair a delicate perfume. Not wanting to move, Calvin stayedthat way until his arm went numb, then slowly lifted his arm to put it around her shoulders. Daphne’s hand came up to rest against his stomach, and he was almost certain she was asleep as she nuzzled against his chest.

The right thing to do would be to wake her up and help her into the guest bedroom. But the couch was comfortable, she needed her rest, and Calvin told himself he’d finish watching the episode before disturbing her. If, in the process, he enjoyed the weight of her against his chest, and his own eyelids began to droop, well ... that was just a natural consequence of warmth and comfort. Nothing more. It had been so long since he’d cuddled with someone. So long since he’d felt the kind of peace that swept through him.

In the recesses of his mind, as his eyelids became heavier, Calvin knew he shouldn’t get used to this. Daphne was planning on leaving the island—planning on using him as an excuse to do it—and what was going on between them wasn’t real. But the weight and warmth of her on his chest were real. The soft breaths ruffling his neck were real. The drugging comfort of her presence was real.

Eyes closing, he let himself enjoy it. Just this once.

He jerked awake at the sound of his phone screaming in the silent room. Daphne sucked in a hard breath, pushing herself off his body. Digging into his pants, Calvin grabbed his phone and swiped to answer.

“Yeah?”

“Two simultaneous break-ins,” one of the deputies working the night shift informed him. “Figured you’d want to know right away. One at Barela Contracting, the other at Romano’s.”

Romano’s was an Italian restaurant only a few blocks away, in the heart of Carlisle. It was one of many eateries owned by the Deacons and had been closed for renovations during the slow winter months. He drove by it every morning on his way to the station.

“On my way,” he said. “I’ll stop at Romano’s first.”

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