Page 60 of Four Steps to the Perfect Fake Date

She could skip the vow renewal altogether. She wouldn’t have to lie and pretend to be his date. She wouldn’t have to be dragged into the old dragons’ insane schemes, because she could present her grandmother with the heirloom pot without having to perform a complicated heist.

Daphne set her glass down, then hopped to the wall. She opened the lower cabinets, because surely, that’s where heavy cookware would be stored. She found a cabinet full of mismatched Tupperware. The next cabinet had a few stainless steel pots, but nothing made of cast iron. The next one was used as a pantry, filled with spices and basics. Two cabinets remained.

She hobbled to the second-to-last one, wrenching the door open to peer inside. It was full of all types of cookware: baking sheets, cake tins, and ... a cast-iron pan! Maybe ...

Daphne pulled out a cake tin to peek behind it. Metal scraped and clattered as she snooped, pushing a pot aside to look behind it—

“What are you doing?”

Yelping, Daphne stood up so fast dizziness swept through her. Gripping the edge of the counter, she turned to face Flint on the other side of the kitchen.

“Were you looking for something?” he asked, frowning. Suspicion drenched his words.

“I was, um ...” Daphne gulped. “I was trying to figure out dinner.”

His frown deepened, and his eyes dropped to the open cabinet. “Right.”

The beating of Daphne’s heart was loud in her ears. She sucked in a long breath, mind spinning. He knew she was lying. He was angry. He didn’t like her snooping. Had he guessed that this was about the pot? Her grandmother had all but broadcast her interest in the old Dutch oven; had he put two and two together? He was a cop, after all.

If he found her out, she’d lose her chance. She wouldn’t be able to go to the vow renewal and get the pot back for her grandmother.

That thought shouldn’t have induced such panic in Daphne. But she’d lived her whole life trying to do the right thing, and now she was at a crossroads. Restoring a family heirloom to its rightful ownerwasthe right thing. But not only that, her grandmother had seemed so proud of Daphne for wanting to do it. She felt like a little bit of a rebel for planning to take it back, and that feltgood.

For once in her life, Daphne felt like a Davis. She felt like she belonged in the family in which she’d been born. Until that exact moment, when Daphne realized that she could lose that feeling as easily as she’d gained it, she hadn’t known just how desperate she was.

She wanted to belong. She wanted to come home and feel like people were happy to seeher. She wanted to feel like she was a part of her family, and not just the one that people patted on the head and congratulated for being good.

She’d lost everything these past two years. She couldn’t lose them too.

So when Flint opened his mouth to say something, Daphne knew he’d question her. She knew she’d crack under the pressure, and she might even blurt out the whole sordid tale. And then he’d think she was a pathetic liar who’d used him. She’d be humiliated, and she’d probably lose her job. Again.

Daphne couldn’t let that happen.

There was a part of her—a small part—that hated the thought of Flint being disappointed in her. They’d reached a kind of truce. They were getting along. How would he treat her if he found out about her scheme?

She’d lived her whole life doing what was right. She’d gotten the grades. The scholarships. The degree. The fiancé. The mortgage. She’d planned to have a family. She’d wanted a perfect wedding.

Now what did she have?

She had a silly cast-iron pot that might not even exist. That was all she had to hold her to her family, to prove to them that she was one of them.

So, desperation nipping at her heels, Daphne played the only card she had.

Curling her fingers into the opening of her blouse, she wrenched the buttons out of their holes and let the garment slide off her arms, exposing her second-favorite bra to the man on the other side of the kitchen.

Flint’s teeth made an audible click as his mouth closed. The blouse fell to the floor beside her injured foot with a soft whisper. Daphne forced herself not to cover herself up, because Flint’s face had gone slack as his gaze had traced the shape of her demicup bra.

“Wh ...” He blinked half a dozen times, then gulped. “What are you doing?”

That was a great question, and one that Daphne didn’t quite have the answer to. “My bra is white lace,” she said, which was a ridiculous thing to say because it was pretty obvious that Flint had been staring at her bra ever since she’d stripped her shirt off in his kitchen, and he was clearly able to deduce the color and fabric. “Do you ... like it?”

His gaze snapped up to her face. “What?”

She’d never seen him this confused. He wasn’t the confident man in charge. He wasn’t the sheriff. He wasn’t even the man who’d walked up to her in Jerry Barela’s parking lot and found her holding the edges of her ripped shirt. The man looked like he’d lost all capacity to function.

They stared at each other for a second. Two. Three.

Then Calvin Flintmoved.

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