Page 20 of Fake As Puck
Which is a problem.
I sit on the edge of the bed and look around at the evidence of his thoughtfulness. The wine that’s exactly the type I like. The snacks that are somehow my favorites. The way the late afternoon light filters through the curtains just right.
This was supposed to be simple. Show up, play a part, collect a paycheck.
It wasn’t supposed to involve him actually caring whether I’m comfortable.
It wasn’t supposed to involve me noticing that he’s gotten really, really attractive.
And it definitely wasn’t supposed to involve me starting to wonder what it would be like if this were real.
5
I’m standing in my kitchen, staring at my phone like it’s going to save me and my spiraling thoughts, when I realize I’ve been holding it for approximately seven minutes without actually calling anyone.
Pizza. I offered pizza. Simple enough.
Except now I’m spiraling about what kind of pizza to order because what if she doesn’t like pepperoni? What if she’s vegetarian? What if she has opinions about crust thickness?
She just said no pineapple. I stare at the screen for another minute.
Fuck it. I’m ordering everything.
Twenty minutes later, I’m arranging three pizza boxes on my counter like I’m preparing for the hockey team to come over. Pepperoni, veggie supreme, and something called “artisanalgoat cheese with caramelized onions” that the hipster kid at the pizza place assured me was “totally fire.”
Plus two orders of breadsticks. And every dipping sauce they had. Marinara, ranch, garlic butter, honey mustard, even some weird chipotle thing that I’m pretty sure no one actually eats.
I step back to survey my work and realize I look like someone who’s never ordered food for another human being before.
Which, honestly, might be accurate.
She’s been in her room for forty-five minutes. Is that normal? How long does it take to unpack a weekend bag?
I change my shirt. Then I change it again because the second one makes me look like I’m trying too hard, and the first one makes me look like I’m not trying at all.
I settle on a gray t-shirt that hopefully says “casual but put-together” and immediately regret every decision I’ve made in the past twenty-four hours.
I’m wiping down the counter for the third time when I hear footsteps on the stairs. My heart does this stupid thing where it speeds up like I’m about to take a penalty shot in overtime.
She walks into the kitchen, and I have to actively remind myself to breathe.
She’s changed out of her travel clothes into jeans and a simple black t-shirt, and her hair is down now, falling in waves around her shoulders. She looks comfortable. Like she belongs in my kitchen.
Which is a dangerous thought.
“Pizza’s here,” I say, gesturing to the counter like she can’t see the three boxes taking up the available surface area.
She stops and stares at the spread. “West.”
“Yeah?”
“How much pizza did you order?”
“I got variety.”
“This is enough pizza for a hockey team.”
“I didn’t know what you liked.”
