Page 13 of Keeping You
Nothing too elaborate. Right. Like, there’s anything simple about pretending when every cell remembers what it was like to have the real thing.
“What’s in it for you?” I ask. “I mean, besides making Harper and Kirk uncomfortable.”
She hesitates, and I see something vulnerable flicker across her face. “I’m tired of being the victim in this story. Tired of people looking at me with pity. I want them to see me as someone worth fighting for.”
And there it is—the real reason. No matter what she says, this isn’t about revenge; it’s about self-respect. I should say no. Should walk away before this gets complicated. Before I start wanting things I can’t have. Instead, I hear myself saying, “I’ll think about it.”
Relief flashes in her eyes, but it’s quickly hidden. “Thanks.” She takes a couple of steps away from me, then stops. “For what it’s worth, Luke, I think your father would be proud of you for coming home. For taking care of your family.”
Before I can respond, she walks away, leaving me standing by the park bench, a cold coffee in my hand and the echo of her proposition in the air.
Two weeks of pretending to be something we’re not. The smart thing would be to say no. To find another way to save the Sweet as Sin. My savings can help pay the bills, but they can’t bring people into the bakery.
As I watch her hurry down the sidewalk, the skirt of her dress and her ponytail rapidly swishing back and forth with each step, I know I’m not going to be smart about this.
Harper’s face flashes in my mind, with her hopeful smile when she talks about Callie, and her obvious pain at the riftbetween them. Dating her best friend, even if it's fake, is like walking into a minefield. But seeing the bakery’s empty tables, those stacks of bills, the defeated slump in Anna’s, Harper’s, and Mom’s shoulders... I can’t walk away from a chance to fix this, even if it means risking everybody’s feelings in the process.
Chapter Five
Callie
Luke has jogged past my house at least three times this week, after work. I know this because I watch for him from behind my living room curtains, where I have a perfect view as he rounds the corner onto Maple Street, his stride steady and controlled. Each time I tell myself not to look, and each time I fail, coffee cooling in my hand while my pulse stirs with something I don’t want to name. I’m starting to wonder if it’s a coincidence or if he’s chosen this path for a reason, like he knows where I live? I shouldn’t be surprised. It is a small town, and he is a police officer after all. And God knows he comes equipped with investigative instincts.
Mrs. Faraday from next door is watering her garden, and as he approaches, she pointedly turns her back. He waves anyway. I’ve noticed him do that on more than one occasion, displaying that easy confidence I remember, the kind that says he’ll show up whether people welcome him or not.
The knock on my front door startles me away from the window. I smooth down my dress and check my reflection in the hall mirror before opening it, already knowing who I’ll find on the other side.
Luke’s hair is damp at the temples, and there’s color in his cheeks. Am I a bitch that I’m secretly pleased to see sweat on his forehead, and his breathing is heavier? Unfortunately, his black t-shirt is clinging to his torso in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
“Hey.” He flashes that crooked grin that l loved. Still do. “Got any water? I may have overestimated my endurance.”
I raise an eyebrow. “There’s an Allsup’s two blocks back the way you came. And the CVS on Main.”
“True.” He leans against my porch railing, not looking particularly concerned about the distance. “But I thought this might be a good opportunity to talk about your proposition.”
Right. The fake dating scheme I pitched two days ago after no more than a moment’s thought. The words had flown out of my mouth before I’d really formed any sort of plan. When I looked out the window and saw him with his sisters inside the bakery, I realized how much I missed my best friend and her family. I found my feet carrying me across the way faster than I could reshelve a misfiled romance novel. I’ve been kicking myself ever since because it’s not Kirk that I want to make jealous. I don’t give a damn about him. It’s about proving to Harper, and to myself, that she doesn’t get the last word on my life. And me dating Luke, even if it is pretend, will only piss Harper off.
What the hell was I thinking?
“I suppose you could come in for a minute,” I say, stepping back to let him pass. What choice do I have? I put the idea out there, and I’d look like a fool if I changed my mind now. And I’m not in the habit of making myself the fool, at least not on purpose.
“I’m surprised you didn’t take over your parents’ place. I’m sorry, by the way. Harper told me.”
Waving a hand, I try to dismiss the stab of pain that still gets me every time I think of Mom and Dad. “Too many memories. I couldn’t stay there. We sold it to a lovely young family.”
“So, you’re the town librarian now.”
“Yup.”
He follows me through my small bungalow to the back, where the kitchen is, and I’m hyperaware of his presence behind me. The house suddenly feels smaller than its twelve hundred square feet and much more intimate.
“I think that’s great. Sort of like the town historian, keeper of all the lore. It fits with the family connection.”
My ancestor was a man named Sam “Cupid” Cooper, who, as legend has it, shot an arrow through the hats of two feuding lovers, pinning them to a tree until they reconciled. In reality, he saved the town from a group of dangerous cattle rustlers. The townspeople were grateful and named a small creek that ran through town after him. Over time, the city grew, and the creek dried up, so they named the town after him.
Ignoring his attempt at small talk, because I need to stay focused, I grab a tall glass from the cabinet and fill it with ice water, trying to ignore the way he’s looking around, taking in details of my life: my book inspired flea market treasures displayed on top of the cabinets, the stack of library books on the island counter, the half-empty carafe of coffee, and the mug I forgot to put in the dishwasher this morning. Thankfully, I put away my old journal where I still have a photo of him as a bookmark. I’d dug it out a couple of days ago, torturing myself with memories as I poured through the entries I’d made back in high school.
“Thanks,” he says when I hand him the glass, his fingers brushing mine briefly.
