Page 78 of A Flighty Fake Boyfriend
Why hadn’t I thought of that?
“You’re gen whatever.” I handed him my phone. “Pick me a nice one. My card’s on file.”
“Ooh.” He tackled the task happily while I listened to the thrum of insects and the whisper of a breeze through the leaves of trees. We continued walking, but because he was so absorbed in my phone, I took a turn at keeping us on the path.
What I really wanted was to lie down on the grass and take a nap. I had emotional jetlag—a kind of foggy, brittle exhaustion I could apparently get without going on a trip across time zones. Or maybe I had crossed one, from six years ago to now.
I’d let my emotions hibernate out of some misguided self-preservation instinct. Now they’d woken and nothing was what I thought it was.
I had changed.
"Got one." Epic announced. "You look exhausted. I'll drive. You can sleep the rest of the way.
"Sounds great." I could barely keep my eyes open.
He took my hand. "Let's go."
Chapter Nineteen
Epic woke me after he parked outside the Airbnb. I looked at the time. Three in the afternoon. I’d slept the rest of the way back.
In the driveway, Epic introduced me to Ken Ashton, who owned this place and several others if I understood correctly.
“Here are the keys.” Ken handed them over and I let myself inside. Briefly, he walked us through the house. “You’ll find your breakfast basket on the porch at seven tomorrow morning. Just fill out this form so I know what your drink preferences are.”
He gave me a form and a pencil, and I leaned over the counter in the kitchen and checked off the marked boxes.
“Food allergies?” I asked Epic.
“Nope.”
“Regular coffee? Or do you want something else to drink?”
“Coffee’s great. Cream and sugar.”
“The basket comes with assorted pastries and muffins,” said Ken. “I have it delivered from Café Bêtise. I think you’ll find their pastries are superb.”
Epic nodded enthusiastically. “We serve them at Bistro.”
“Of course. You’re the waiter.” Ken rubbed a hand over his forehead. “I recognized your face. Jeremy, right?”
I snorted.
“Well, that’s one of the name tags I wear, but my name is Epic.”
“Is it?”
“Mmhmm.”
Ken waited.
I’d seen this coming, sooner or later, and sat back to enjoy the show.
“Are you going to tell me your name?” asked Ken. “Or should I guess? Rumpelstiltskin.”
“It really is Epic,” I answered for my fake boyfriend, who looked blank. “Not an epic name, but the name, Epic.”
“Oh.” A sweet blush flooded Ken’s cheeks. “Who’s on first?”
