Page 6 of Claiming the Fake Boyfriend
"You're staring," she points out.
"You're worth staring at."
She laughs, the sound vibrating against my chest. "Does that line usually work?"
"I don't know," I admit. "I've never used it before."
Something in my tone must convince her, because her teasing smile fades into something softer, more genuine. The song ends too soon, and as we step apart, a tiny woman with Amber's eyes approaches.
"There you are, dear," she says, patting Amber's arm. "I hate to interrupt your evening, but could you help me with something at home? That new medicine cabinet is still in boxes, and my arthritis is acting up."
"Of course, Gran," Amber says immediately. "We can go now."
"We?" Her grandmother's gaze swings to me, sharp and assessing.
"Gran, this is Tucker Hughes. Tucker, this is my grandmother, Rose Hill."
"Ma'am." I extend my hand, strangely nervous under her scrutiny. "It's a pleasure."
"Hughes..." She narrows her eyes. "The brewery fellow?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Hmm." She studies me for a long moment, then nods once, apparently satisfied. "Well, you look strong enough. You can help with the cabinet."
And just like that, I find myself driving to Rose Hill's cottage, a small, immaculately kept place on Willow Street with a garden that must be spectacular in spring. The inside smells like cinnamon and old books, cozy in a way that immediately puts me at ease.
"It's in the bathroom," Rose directs, pointing down a short hallway. "Amber knows where everything goes."
The next half hour is spent assembling a medicine cabinet while Amber organizes her grandmother's prescriptions, explaining each one to me with the patience of someone who's done this many times before. I find myself watching her gentle hands as she works.
When we finish, Rose insists on serving us apple cider and homemade cookies. I find myself drawn into conversation about the town's history, the Fall Festival, and Rose's opinions on everything from politics to proper pie crust technique.
"You should enter the pie contest next year, Amber," Rose says firmly. "Your apple crumble would win."
Amber rolls her eyes fondly. "You say that every year, Gran."
"And every year, you don't listen." Rose turns to me. "She's stubborn, my granddaughter."
"I hadn't noticed," I say dryly, earning a playful glare from Amber.
It's nearly ten when we finally leave, the night air cooler now. Amber seems quieter as I drive her home, lost in thought.
"Thank you," she says suddenly. "For helping with Gran's cabinet. And for... all of this."
"My pleasure." I glance at her. "Your grandmother's something else."
"She likes you," Amber says, sounding surprised. "She doesn't like most people."
"I'm irresistible to Hill women, apparently."
She laughs, the sound filling the truck cab. "You're impossible."
"Yet here you are."
We pull up to her cottage, the porch light casting a warm glow. I walk her to the door, suddenly reluctant for the evening to end.
"So," I say, hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "Tomorrow. What time should I pick you up?"
