Page 12 of Faking It with My Bossy Ex

“No. And I'm doing this for the town, that's it. Nothing between us is going to change.”

“Who said I wanted it to?” I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. But Idowant it to change. The truth’s been gnawing at me. Only it’s not justmysecret to tell.

Coming clean might fix us, or it might hurt her more than ever.

“You can let go of my hand now,” she says, her voice a touch breathier than before. I realize I'm still holding onto her, the warmth of her skin against mine feeling far too right. It takes every ounce of willpower to break the connection.

“Let's get to work,” I say, my voice rougher than I'd like.

Chapter 5

Amy

I shuffle papers around, trying to look busy while my brain short circuits. How did I just agree to work with Dylan? Worse, under Dylan? There must've been something in Laura's donuts because this isn't me at all.

“Here's the event schedule,” Dylan says, dropping a couple of folders in front of me. “Think you can make a new sheet and fill in the gaps? We might need to reach out to the fundraiser participants, too.”

Of course, he’s already bossing me around. Thankfully, he disappears out the door of the study room and leaves me to my work.

As I work through the schedule, my heart sinks. It's a mess. No participant schedules, double-booked activities, or crucial details missing. There's no escaping it now. If I don't tolerate working with Dylan and help sort out this chaos, the fundraiser's doomed. And Snowfall Springs needs this to work.

When I’m finishing up the schedule and my notes about everything that has to be addressed, Dylan comes back into the study room. He’s carrying two large cups of coffee in a carrier and a paper bag.

“What’s that?” I ask as he slides a coffee over to me and sets the paper bag down in the center of the table. I eye it nervously. Is it poisoned? Probably not. Dylan doesn’t seem like the type who would aspire to go to jail.

“This is lunch.” He grins. “I have to make sure my secretary has enough energy to make heads or tails of all this.”

“I’m not your secretary.” The nerve of this guy. A deliciously tempting smell wafts up from the bag, calming my temper.

Don’t look in the bag. Don’t do it.

My traitorous hand sneaks out to peek inside, just as my stomach betrays me with a rumble. Three chicken melts from my favorite place nestle in the bag.

My heart picks up its pace. Did he seriously pick that place? The deli we'd hit after school, where I'd always get the chicken melt with extra mustard?

I reach for the coffee first, needing something to steady myself. One sip and my chest tightens. Cappuccino with a sprinkle of cinnamon. Exactly how I used to order it every morning at Miller's Café.

He remembered.

Of all the stupid little details to stick in his head after eight years, he remembered this. I want to be angry that he still knows me this well, that he can just waltz back into my life with the perfect coffee order as if he never broke my heart.

“Eight years,” I whisper, “and you remember this?”

“I remember everything about you,” his voice rough, that teasing mask slipping.

The intensity of his words hangs between us until I can't take it anymore. I grab the sandwich, trying to break whatever this moment is. One bite and … gosh. Extra mustard.

“Technically, there's no food allowed in the library.”

“What?” The savory, spicy flavor of mustard hits my tongue. No way I’m letting him gloat about remembering a simple sandwich order. “What if the librarian catches us?”

“We’ll ask the police if we can share a cell.” He peeks in the direction of the librarian, his eyes twinkling.

“That is not happening. They put men and women separate, you know.” I roll my eyes. He’s unrealistic, and even if he wasn’t, I don’t want to share a cell with him.

“I have connections in the police department.” He winks.

“You do not.” His face is all cocky and confident, and I’m not so sure anymore. This is dangerous territory.

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