Page 20 of Claiming the Fake Boyfriend
The coffee machine beeps, breaking the moment. Tucker pours us each a mug, adding just the right amount of cream to mine without asking. These small rituals, the way he knows how I take my coffee, how I know which side of the bed he prefers, the silent choreography of our mornings… these are the things I cherish most.
"So," I say, accepting the steaming mug, "chocolate raspberry, lemon elderflower, or vanilla bourbon?"
"Is 'all of the above' an option?" He waggles his eyebrows. "Because I'm thinking we need at least three cakes. Maybe four."
"You're impossible."
"You love it."
I do. God help me, I love everything about this man, from his terrible morning hair to his ridiculous sweet tooth to the way he still reaches for my hand when we walk through town together.
When we get to the bakery on Dewdrop Way it is warm and fragrant, the air thick with vanilla and butter. The baker herself, a round woman with silver-streaked hair and flour perpetually dusting her apron, leads us to a small table by the window where an array of cake samples awaits.
"For Whitetail Falls' favorite couple," she says with a wink, setting down a pot of tea. "Take your time, dears."
Tucker wastes no time, attacking the chocolate raspberry with gusto. "This," he declares between bites, "is the one."
"You haven't even tried the others yet," I point out, sampling a delicate forkful of lemon cake.
"Don't need to." He reaches across the table, thumb gently wiping a crumb from my lower lip. The casual intimacy of it still thrills me. "But I will, because watching you eat cake is possibly my favorite pastime."
"Weirdo."
"Your weirdo," he corrects, pushing the vanilla bourbon sample toward me. "Try this one next. It might change your life."
I do, and the rich, complex flavor blooms on my tongue. "Oh, that's good."
"See?" He looks smug. "Trust me on desserts. I'm a professional."
"You make beer for a living."
"Liquid dessert," he counters without missing a beat.
We sample each flavor twice (Tucker's insistence), debating the merits of each until we finally settle on the vanilla bourbon with salted caramel filling. As the baker jots down notes for our order, I glance out the window at Acorn Circle. The trees are just beginning to turn, hints of gold and crimson appearing among the green. In a month, they'll be ablaze with autumn glory.
"Penny for your thoughts," Tucker says as we step outside, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully behind us.
"Just thinking about how different my life is from what I imagined two years ago." I slip my arm through his as westroll toward Autumn's Embrace, my boutique that's flourished beyond my wildest dreams these past years. "After Cameron, I thought I'd just... exist. Run my shop. Be the town's cautionary tale."
Tucker stops walking, turning to face me. "And now?"
"Now I know that was just the prologue." I touch his face, feeling the familiar curve of his jaw beneath my palm. "This is the real story."
His expression softens. "I like being your story."
"Good, because you're stuck with me. Legally, soon enough."
"Not soon enough," he corrects, pulling me close. In the middle of Acorn Circle, with shoppers and locals bustling around us, he kisses me like we're still those people from two years ago.
When we part, slightly breathless, a passing older woman chuckles. "Save something for the wedding, you two."
Tucker grins unrepentantly. "No promises, Mrs. Foster."
As we continue walking, hand in hand beneath the canopy of changing leaves, Tucker says casually, "So I've been thinking about the space above your shop."
"What about it?"
"Well, we're going to need more room eventually. When little Hughes babies start arriving."
