Page 57 of Fumbled Into Love

He’s quickly become the brightest part of my day. I loved living alone, but it was lonely. When I would come home, it was just me and my decrepit apartment. The freedom was nice, but I enjoy living with Deon.

He eats my food like I’m the greatest chef on the planet, and he’s a fan of my dating show. He tolerates my messy tendencies and doesn’t judge me when I inevitably leave my shoes lying around or an empty glass on the kitchen table.

Most of all, I like the time we spend together doing nothing. Reading on the couch. Watching Gordie chase after a toy. Cleaning up after dinner. Silently working on a puzzle before bed.

The moments of quiet unimportance are the ones I cherish most.

“There is a lot to go over, so I’ll start.” Maren chugs half of her Diet Coke. “Someone threw up on our porch, I caught a couple trying to get it on in the greenhouse, and you and your fake boyfriend’s Instagram post is doing far better than mine, and I’m pissed about it.”

“Ourwhat?”

“The photo you took at the party? Deon posted it yesterday. It’s all over the internet,” Sawyer says, flipping her phone around to show me the photo.

And there we are, Deon, Gordie, and I dressed up in our costumes. I’m beaming at the camera, attempting to wrangle Gordie and Deon…Deon is smiling at me.

If I didn’t know any better, I would say we look like a real couple.

“Read the caption,” Maren presses and I scroll.

Happy Halloween from this family of Hobbits and a tiny dragon. Nathalie, if you see this, I hope the costume wasn’t a rental, I ripped the pants.

My hands fly to my face to conceal the blush creeping onto my cheeks.

He didn’t rip the pants, I did. And I had a hell of a time doing it.

“Would you like to explain why private Deon Adams is sharing with the world that he ripped his pants?” Sawyer asks, her eyebrow ticking upward.

“I would also like to know,” Maren adds.

I shrug a shoulder and shove a spring roll in my mouth to avoid answering their questions. I already had to answer a million questions last night at dinner with my family. I don’t think I’ll survive another inquisition.

Questions lead to answers, and the more questions I answer, the greater the possibility I reveal my uncomfortable truth: I may have a small crush on my fake boyfriend turned roommate turned fake boyfriend with benefits.

I’m shocked it took this long for it to happen, but as I stare down at the photo he posted, my chest tingles with the obviousbeginnings of a crush. I think they’ve been brewing since he tagged along for Book Club and have only compounded with every single one of his thoughtful actions and cocky smirks.

My heart beating in my vagina every time he walks into a room should have been a clear sign.I’m blaming my ignorance of my feelings on the fact I never felt this way around the other men I’ve slept with.

Some of them were nice, but that’s all they were. They would enter a room, and I would force a response. When Deon walks into a room, I have to bite back a giddy smile.

Jumping into bed with him may have been a bad idea.

They both wait me out until I’m squirming beneath their heavy stares, and the words tumble out.

“I may have ripped the pants.”

The confession is no louder than a breath, and I purposefully smash the words together so they understand as little as possible.

This is Deon’s fault. No one would have known about our little deal if he hadn’t gone rogue and posted a photo and caption without telling me. He chose a great photo, though. We look fabulous.

But now, I have to answer questions that leave me vulnerable.

The baffled, stunned looks on my friends’ faces tell me they heard my confession.

As Eric sets down our plates, Maren drags my Pad Thai out of reach.

“You eat after you explain,” she says, holding my lunch hostage.

My stomach grumbles in protest, and as quickly as possible, I supply Maren and Sawyer with the cliff notes version ofSaturday night.

---