Page 18 of Fake It 'Til You Feel It

I force a tight smile and give him a quick nod, praying he doesn’t bring this up again later.

“How long have you two been in love?” Mrs. Harris asks, her tone conspiratorial now.

I laugh nervously, bringing my hands down to my lap and fidgeting with my soft napkin. “I—I wouldn’t call itlove. It’s more… more complicated than that.”

She hums thoughtfully, as if I’ve just confessed a secret worth analyzing. “Complicated is often another word for passionate.”

I don’t have a response to that. My throat tightens, a sharp pressure lodging behind my ribs.Passionate.The word clings to my skin, seeping under it, making something in me recoil—and lean in—at the same time.

Because she’s not wrong.

I force a laugh that comes out too thin, too brittle. I shouldn’t care how Nathan is watching me now, shouldn’t care that I can feel his gaze tracking every micro-expression I can’t quite suppress. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out my thoughts before I can make sense of them.

Instead, I excuse myself, muttering something about needing fresh air as I practically flee the dining room.

I find a quiet spot on the deck. I relish in the cool breeze as it sprays against my skin, a sharp contrast to the tension in my fingers as I grip the railing and try to steady my thoughts.

Love?

The word wedges itself into my brain, impossible to ignore now that it’s there. It doesn’t belong—not with me. Not with him.

The idea is ridiculous. I mean, sure, Nathan and I have a… connection. But love?

I replay last night in my head—his words, his touch, the way he kissed me like he couldn’t stop himself. My stomach twists, and I hate the flutter of uncertainty that follows.

Mrs. Harris’s voice loops in my mind.You’ve got a glow, dear.

Was she right? Is there something more between us? Something I’ve been too afraid to name?

I don’t know.

I hate not knowing.

I grip my phone, staring at the screen like it holds the answer.

One call. Just to talk. Just to hear Chelsea tell me I’m being ridiculous.

Before I can second-guess myself, I press the call button.

The line rings once. Twice.

“You better not be calling me to cover up a murder,” Chelsea answers, voice dry. “Because I swear to God, Dana, I love you, but I amnotbuilt for prison.”

Despite everything, I huff out a laugh. “Relax. No dead bodies this time.”

“So just emotional carnage, then?” she deadpans. “Great. You know how I love starting my morning with existential crises that aren’t mine.”

I hesitate, fingers tightening around my phone. I spill everything, reciting the…activities of the past few days to my best friend. Once I’m done, my breathing only comes in shallow spurts.Am I having a panic attack?Chelsea catches it in the silence instantly.

“Wait,” her voice shifts, sharp with disbelief. “Back up. Start over.”

I sigh, pacing the deck as I hold the phone to my ear. “I already told you everything. What part of ‘I dry humped my boss on a yacht’ isn’t clear?”

“All of it,” she wails. “Because, Dana, this sounds like something out of one of those spicy romance novels you keep recommending to me.”

I groan, pressing my free hand to my forehead. “It’s not like that. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” Chelsea laughs, her voice brimming with mischief. “That’s code for you’re already hooked and trying to fight it.”

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