Page 34 of Faking It For Real

We stood there for an awkward moment, neither quite sure how to proceed. We'd discussed the parameters of our fake relationship, but the practical application was proving more challenging than the theory.

"So," I began, "how do we—"

Before I could finish, Ethan leaned down and kissed me—a quick, gentle press of his lips against mine. It was over almost before it registered, but it still sent a surprising jolt through me.

"Sorry," he said, looking slightly embarrassed. "I just saw a couple of teammates over there. Thought we should look convincing."

"No, that's... that's fine," I managed, trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach. His lips had been softer than I'd expected, and I found myself momentarily flustered. "That's what we agreed on. When necessary."

"Right." He cleared his throat. "Should we head in?"

"Lead the way," I nodded, grateful for the change of subject.

Ethan purchased our tickets, ignoring my attempt to pay for my own, and we entered the festival grounds. The initial awkwardness persisted as we walked side by side, not quite touching, both hyperaware of the other's presence.

"So," he said after a moment, "what's your professional opinion on the aesthetics of hay bales and decorative gourds?"

The randomness of the question startled a laugh out of me. "Are you asking if I find autumn décor photographically appealing?"

"I am," he nodded solemnly. "As my girlfriend, I should know these things about you."

"Well," I played along, "I appreciate the organic textures, but the picture-perfect layout feels a bit forced. Too arranged. Honestly, I prefer naturally occurring fall scenes—leaves caught in rain gutters, frost patterns on windows, that sort of thing."

"Noted," he said with exaggerated seriousness. "No artisanal pumpkin displays in our future home."

"Our future—" I began, then caught his teasing smile. "Very funny."

"Had to break the ice somehow," he shrugged. "We look like we're on an extremely uncomfortable first date."

"Aren't we?" I pointed out. "Technically?"

"Fair point." He hesitated, then offered his hand. "Would this help? For appearances?"

I looked at his outstretched hand, then nodded, slipping my fingers between his. His palm was warm against mine, the calluses from hockey creating an interesting texture against my skin.

"Better?" he asked.

"More convincing, anyway," I agreed.

With the physical connection established, we began to relax, wandering through the festival with gradually decreasing stiffness. We sampled hot apple cider, debated the merits of various pumpkin-flavored foods ("Pumpkin spice has gone too far," Ethan insisted after we tried a particularly offensive pumpkin spice beef jerky), and observed the carving contest with critical eyes.

"That one's clearly superior," I said, pointing to an intricately carved scene of a haunted forest. "The depth perspective is incredible."

"I don't know," Ethan countered. "The simplicity of the geometric design over there shows remarkable precision. Sometimes less is more."

I looked at him with new interest. "That's surprisingly artistic insight from a hockey player."

"Don't sound so shocked," he laughed. "I do have thoughts beyond power plays and face-offs."

"So I'm discovering," I admitted. "Any other hidden depths I should know about?"

Something flickered in his expression—vulnerability, perhaps—before he masked it with a casual smile. "I'm an open book. An extremely boring one about hockey."

"Somehow I doubt that," I said, studying him. “You always wanted to play hockey? Never considered anything else?”

He paused, thoughtful. “Honestly, I don’t know. Hockey was just… there. It was the expectation, my future. Sometimes I wonder if I love it because I really love it, or simply because I’ve never known anything else.”

The honesty in his admission caught me off guard.

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