Page 43 of Fumbled Into Love

He is meticulously tidy. Everything he owns has aspotwhere it lives. The remote sits on the side table. The keys belong in the catch-all on the hallway table. His workout bag resides in the corner of the mud room.

Deon will eat anything. Doesn’t matter what it is. If you offer it, he will at least try it. I’ve begun to triple every recipe so he has enough to eat with leftovers, and if he’s not home, I leave them in the fridge with a note. The best mornings are the ones where the note is on the counter, covered in his chicken scratch with his ranking of the meal. His favorite so far is the drunken noodles. His least favorite was the salad with grapes. That recipe got a massive frowny face and a comment:Grapes are disgusting.

I’ve grown obsessed with uncovering small bits and pieces of Deon. He fully embraced Book Club, though I know it probably wasn’t what he had planned for a Tuesday night. The next day, I found him on the couch reading the book he was forced to re-enact. I refrained from commenting, but he left the room about halfway through the novel, and I knew he had reached the scene and needed a moment alone.

But, what I uncovered, and may love most about Deon, is how he works on a puzzle every night, sipping on a mug of sleepytime tea. The first time he did it, I assumed it was a fluke, but then it happened again. When he admitted his coffee tableis a custom-made puzzle table, I had to leave the room to scream into my pillow. Who is that adorable?

Deon Adams, that's who.

“I swear they put something in the food coloring that makes the cheese addictive, so people eat more,” Sawyer replies, scarfing down her nachos.

“How’s living with Deon?” Maren asks, sipping her Diet Coke between sneaking Cheez-Its from her purse.

“It’s been surprisingly nice,” I admit, finally telling them the whole story. Outside of book club, I haven’t seen my friends much. They’re both in the early honeymoon phase of their marriages, where they spend every waking minute with their partners, and I’m happy for them. Truly, I am. But it’s easy to feel left behind while their lives grow and change.

Deon has banished that bitter envy. He’s my partner in crime, at least for a short time, and I’ve latched onto that.

I finish regaling my tale of moving into Deon’s home, tackle debacle, and dating show bracket included, and a Cheshire grin slowly blooms on Maren’s face. Sawyer drops the nacho in her hand, jaw unhinged.

“What?” I do not like their looks.

“Nothing,” Maren waves me off, “I’m glad he’s breaking out of his shell. Did you know he has a standing ‘order’ for pretzels, and I send a bag with Jack every week?”

I shake my head, but I’m not surprised.

“He told me once he’s never had friends who are genuine.” My heart clenches at his admission, “So I’m happy you two are getting along. He could use afriendlike you.”

She puts an odd emphasis on the word friend, and Sawyer chokes back a laugh. Whatever those two are doing, I don’t likeit. I would ask, but I fear knowing is worse than not knowing, so I’m going to believe ignorance is bliss.

“Oh, here they come!” Sawyer yells, popping out of her seat as the Mavericks jog onto the field.

The jersey on my back burns against my skin as I spot Deon at the end of the field, warming up. It took far too long for me to realize this was Deon’s jersey. My traitorous friends never told me. Instead, I had to find out on my own from the jumbo screen, but as he moves around the field, I’m proud to wear it.

Proud to support my friend.

“Go. Go. Go!” I launch from the frigid stadium seat as Deon flies down the field. I have little idea what’s happening logistically, but I do know Deon has the ball, and that alone is cause for excitement. Maren screams at the top of her lungs, and I follow Maren’s lead. If she yells, I yell. If she complains about the referee, I politely agree with whatever comment she makes. “Is he doing something good?”

The crowd roars, drowning my question beneath a buzz of excitement.

“Touchdown!” Maren grabs my waist, lifting me into the air in victory. My stomach plummets as a squeal escapes, our raucous laughter mingling as she smiles. “Yourboyfriendjust scored the winning touchdown.”

The bitter wind covers the blush on my cheeks.Fake boyfriend, I remind myself.

To survive this ordeal, I need to keep the fact in the forefront of my mind because there is a litany of reasons—the tight pair of pants he’s wearing at the top of the list—that could make this a dangerous game.

My skin buzzes, a bolt of pure lightning striking my core as Deon flashes on the big screen, his smile bright and unbridled as he hands the football to the referee.

The more time we spend together, the less immune I am to his attractiveness.

His head turns in our direction, and he points at the stands. I shift left and right, searching for the person he’s pointing at, when the sudden weight of a thousand stares falls onto my shoulders.

“Is he pointing at me?” I whisper to Sawyer.

“It looks like it,” she responds. I’m afraid to look anywhere but the field, and a split second later, my face overtakes the massive screeneveryonecan see.

Is this a part of the whole pretending thing? It would have been nice if he mentioned thisbeforehe singled me out in front of fifty thousand people.

My eyes widen, skin paling to a sickening shade of alabaster on the screen. My eyes dart to Deon, and hesitantly, I lift a hand to wave. He waves back, and the crowdroars.

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