Page 106 of Fumbled Into Love

And it’s breaking every rule we created to prevent this from happening.

No non-platonic touching outside of sexy time. Except I can’t voice the words to tell him to stop because I crave it.

None of the acts are loud or momentous. They’re small gestures of affection that eat through the barbed wire I’ve tried to wrap around my heart, and now there’s a clear path Deon’s taken to root himself into my soul.

While Deon changes, I text Declan, who’s on the other side of the house.

I have a problem.

My phone dings almost immediately.

Declan: What kind of problem?

The “I’m falling in love with my fake boyfriend” kind of problem.

Oh. That’s a really big problem.

Does he know you feel that way?

No. And I’m not going to tell him.

But I need you to limit our alone time together.

I don’t understand.

I am asking, nay, begging you to be a menace.

Never leave me alone.

I’m crouched over my suitcase like Gollum when Deon scares the living hell out of me. “Want to watch our show?” he asks.

I leap into the air, and my phone catapults out of my hand. I quickly scramble to retrieve it before he sees my messages.

“Sure,” I croak, fingers flying across the screen as I text Declan. “Give me a minute to change.”

I’m going to need you to start being a menace. Right. Now.

As slowly as I can, I slip a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt over my body. One by one, I put on my socks. I’mbeginning to lose faith in Declan when I hear what can only be described as a battle cry.

“Deon! Nathalie!” he whines. “I’mboredand want to hang out with mybest friends.” His footsteps grow closer until he’s yelling into the door. “Come out.”

Two sharp bangs rattle the door.

Deon frowns in that direction, and I mentally tell myself anything Declan wants, he can have.

“I was hoping to hang out alone,” Deon whispers, inching away from the door.

I fake a sympathetic smile.

“We can all watch together,” I say, and Deon’s nose scrunches.

“It’sourshow,” he retorts, and my heart squeezes at how he calls itours. My brow rises, and Deon relents. “Fine. But he can’t talk through all the dates.”

It wouldn’t take a genius to parse together that Deon is less than thrilled with how the evening's events have transpired.

His every attempt at physical touch or a quiet moment alone has been spoiled by Declan, who currently sits between us on the couch.

“We should do this every week,” Declan says, leaning back to block Deon’s arm as it snakes behind Declan’s back to get to me. Declan pins Deon’s arm against the couch, and Deon scowls as he rips his arm back.

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