Page 17 of Claiming the Fake Boyfriend
"Which is nothing," she points out, a blush spreading across her cheeks despite her bold words.
"Exactly." I trail my fingers down her spine, feeling her shiver against me. "Perfect attire for breakfast in bed."
Her eyebrow arches. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Well, we could call it what it actually is," I suggest, rolling suddenly so she's beneath me, squealing with surprise. "Round three? Four? I lost count somewhere around midnight."
Amber laughs, the sound vibrating against my chest as I hover over her. "You're insatiable."
"Only for you," I murmur, lowering my head to press a kiss to her collarbone, then the curve of her breast.
Her breath catches, hands sliding into my hair. "Tucker..."
I work my way up to her lips, kissing her deeply. She tastes like sleep and us, her body warm and pliant beneath mine. When I pull back, her eyes are dark, cheeks flushed.
"As much as I'd love to keep you in this bed all day," I say reluctantly, "I'm starving, and I suspect you are too."
On cue, her stomach growls, making us both laugh. "Traitor," she mutters to her midsection.
"Come on." I roll away, immediately missing her warmth. "Shower, then I'm taking you to breakfast. The Copper Kettle does the best Sunday brunch in town."
"Are you sure you want to be seen with me? In public?" Her tone is light, but I catch the uncertainty beneath it. "People will talk."
I lean over and kiss her again, firmly. "Let them."
In the shower, we manage to keep things mostly practical, though I can't resist pressing her against the tile for a few steamy minutes, her leg hooked around my waist as water cascades over us. Eventually, we emerge clean and slightly flushed, exchanging kisses as we dress.
Amber borrows one of my flannel shirts, cinching it at her waist over her dress from last night. The sight of her in my clothes does something primitive to my insides.
"What?" she asks, catching my expression.
"Nothing." I shake my head, smiling. "Just thinking that shirt never looked so good."
She rolls her eyes, but I see the pleased flush on her cheeks. "Smooth talker."
"Only stating facts." I step behind her as she fixes her hair in the mirror, wrapping my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder. Our eyes meet in the reflection.
"Is this real?" she asks quietly. "Or are we still playing pretend?"
I turn her to face me, framing her face with my hands. "This is the most real thing I've felt in years."
Her smile is worth every moment of vulnerability.
Acorn Circle is alive with autumn energy as we stroll hand-in-hand toward The Copper Kettle. Yesterday's wedding has left traces everywhere—ribbons still flutter from lamposts, and the occasional flower petal drifts across the cobblestones. TheFall Festival setup continues around the square, with vendors arranging booths and the scent of cinnamon and apples filling the air.
"I love this time of year," Amber sighs, squeezing my hand. "Everything smells like possibility."
I laugh. "That's oddly specific."
"You know what I mean." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "Like anything could happen."
"Anything already has," I point out, bringing her hand to my lips for a kiss. "Who'd have thought spilling coffee on me would lead to this?"
"Best clumsiness ever," she agrees with a grin.
The Copper Kettle is bustling with Sunday morning patrons when we arrive. The hostess raises her eyebrows when she sees us together.
"Well, well," she says, smirking. "Table for two?"
