Page 23 of Fake As Puck
“I should probably shower,” she says, wiping her hands on a napkin. “Get ready for tomorrow.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Thanks for dinner. And the excessive amount of sauce options.”
“You’re welcome.”
She starts to leave, then turns back. “West?”
“Yeah?”
“This is going to be okay, right?”
There’s something vulnerable in her voice that makes me want to promise her things I can’t guarantee because my memories go back to high school when Tessa pulled me by my ear and demanded that I never look at Liv’s boobs ever again. Back then I was looking at the necklace around her neck. It was mountain-shaped, so I was deep in thought about Liv liking mountains so much that she wore a necklace for it. My sister always smackedme around her friends, but she’s not here right now for the buffer, and I hope everything’s going to be okay.
“Yeah,” I say instead. “It’s going to be fine.”
She nods and heads upstairs, and I’m left standing in my kitchen surrounded by enough pizza to feed a small army and the lingering scent of her shampoo.
I start putting the leftover pizza in the fridge, trying not to think about the fact that she’s down the hall, in my house, about to shower.
Definitely not thinking about that.
Not thinking about the way she looked in my kitchen, comfortable and relaxed and like she belonged there.
Not thinking about how she laughed at my stupid joke about carbs.
And definitely not thinking about how in a couple of days I’m going to pretend to be in love with her in front of all my friends when I’m starting to suspect the pretending part might be the problem.
I close the fridge and lean against it, staring at the ceiling.
This is going to be a very long weekend.
6
I wake up to the sound of something sizzling downstairs and the scent of coffee drifting through the house.
For a moment, I forget where I am. Then I remember: fake girlfriend duties, expensive guest room, and the fact that West Carmack is apparently cooking breakfast.
My hair looks like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket, and there’s a pillow crease running down half my face. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and immediately start damage control.
This is ridiculous. He’s seen me look worse. We’ve known each other for fifteen years. He’s seen me with sick with the flu, braces, and that unfortunate phase where I thought crimping my hair was a good idea.
But that was before. Before jawlines and forearms and whatever pheromones he’s apparently been upgraded with.
I brush my teeth, attempt to tame my hair into something resembling intentional, and throw on jeans and a sweater. Casual but not “I just rolled out of bed” casual.
When I get downstairs, West is standing at the stove, flipping what appears to be actual pancakes. Not the frozen kind. The from-scratch kind that require measuring and mixing and giving a damn.
“Morning,” he says without turning around, like he has some kind of radar for when I enter a room.
“Morning.” I pour myself coffee from the pot. It’s not too strong, not too weak. “You don’t have to cook for me.”
He goes quiet, spatula frozen mid-flip. “I know.”
“I mean, I appreciate it. But this isn’t part of the deal.”
“Right.” His voice is flat. “The deal.”
