Page 27 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector
We fall quiet for a moment. I lean my head against the headboard and let the silence settle between us.
I press a hand to my chest, grounding myself. “Jackson offered something. A way to keep Brad from coming back.”
Jenna pauses for a moment. “What kind of something?”
I pause, then let the words tumble out. “Fake dating. Just to throw Brad off.”
There’s a long pause. Then—
“Wait,what?Jackson offered tofake dateyou?”
“Yup.”
“And? What did you say?”
“I said no. He’s already done so much. I couldn’t pile that on too.”
“Ava.”
Jenna sighs in her long, dramatic way.
“Don’t you understand that fake dating your literal high school crush is the plot of half the romance novels on my bookshelf? It’s basically fate.”
I groan into the pillow. “This is not a book.”
“Maybe not. But don’t pretend you didn’t think about saying yes.”
I don’t say anything.
Which says everything.
After I hang up, I just sit there for a while: phone still in my hand, the room dim except for the glow of the bedside lamp. The hum of the house is faint around me. The muffled sound of the TV from the den, a quiet clink of something downstairs in the kitchen. I’m not sure if it’s Miss Taylor or Jackson, but either way, it’s comforting.
Normal. Familiar.
And yet…nothingabout this is normal.
I set my phone down and walk over to the window, pulling the curtain back slightly. The porch light is on, casting a soft yellow glow over the front steps and part of the lawn. The same steps Brad stood on yesterday morning.
I wrap my arms around myself.
The thing is, Jenna’s not wrong. A small, annoying part of medidthink about saying yes.
And not just to keep Brad away.
I think about the way Jackson looked at me yesterday morning: steady, unflinching. The way he stood between me and Brad without hesitation. The way he made space for me to breathe again without asking anything in return.
It wasn’t just protective.
It felt… like hesawme. And didn’t flinch.
A light knock at the door startles me.
“Come in,” I say, my voice barely louder than a whisper.
Jackson steps inside, hair still damp from a shower, a gray shirt clinging to his muscular frame. He holds up a small plate.
“Miss Taylor made cookies. Thought you might want one.”
