Page 149 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“You’re really talented, Hux.”
He tries to downplay it. “It’s just a hobby.”
“It’s more than that.” I close the notebook carefully and set it back inside his bedside table. “I get to look at myself how you see me.”
“I hope I did a good job of making you look like a smokeshow,” he jokes. “I would draw your brain too, but it might be a little weird.”
“I like weird things.” I lay my head against his shoulder.
We lie there in comfortable silence for a while. I think about how this weekend was supposed to be part of the strategy. A move on the chessboard. A way of selling our relationship to the world.
But it’s become something terrifyingly outside the bounds that we tried to set up.
Something real.
Lying there with him, feeling more exposed and more safe than I have in years, I realize I don’t know what scares me more. Losing this thing we’ve built, or letting myself keep it.
Because keeping it means admitting this was never fake. Means acknowledging that somewhere along the way, I stopped playing a role and started falling for the man behind it.
Means risking everything on the possibility that he might choose me when this is all over.
And Juliet Monroe doesn’t gamble with her heart.
Except apparently, she does.
Apparently, she already has.
Chapter34
Hunter
The kitchen sink backs up Tuesday morning while Juliet’s getting ready for work. I hear her muttering about it from the bedroom, followed by the sound of her opening and closing cabinet doors like she’s going to find a magical solution in there.
“Problem?” I ask, appearing in the doorway.
She’s crouched under the sink in her work clothes, hair pulled back, looking frustrated. “The disposal is being stupid. I think something’s stuck.”
“Move over.”
She shifts aside without protest. I slide under the sink cabinet to look. It’s not complicated, just needs the disposal reset, and the drain cleared. I take about ten minutes to fix it.
“There,” I say. I wash my hands and wipe my hands with a dish towel. “Should be good now.”
When I look up, she’s staring at me with something soft in her expression.
“Thank you.” Her voice has this quality I don’t hear often. Genuine gratitude, but also something deeper. I can tell that she’s touched that I noticed. I think fixing things without being asked is pleasing to her.
I’ll have to make a note of that.
It’s not a big moment. Just basic household maintenance. But it hits me hard anyway. That kind of intimacy. Trust. Affection. The way she looks at me like I’m useful for more than just hockey stats and public appearances.
It’s quiet, but it’s mutual. I can see it on her face that this feels like something to her too.
Like a turning point.
Ohfuck. Oh, fucking fuck. I might have serious feelings for my fake fiancée.
I’ve had a lot of things in my life. Money. Ice time. Rage. Enough anger to fuel a small city and enough adrenaline to keep me going when everything else falls apart.
