Page 48 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

maker.

After all the painkillers they gave me, I’m not sure caffeine is even

allowed—but rules are out of the question right now.

“What should we start with?” he asks.

“Tell me something about yourself.”

“I play the guitar.”

“I knew that,” I breathe. “Something else. Something I don’t know.”

“How am I supposed to know what you do and do not know?”

I shake my head, already tired of this conversation. “Fine, tell me

something most people don’t know.”

“That’s the same type of question, Leah. I can’t read minds.”

“See, now that’s something I didn’t know,” I taunt. “You’re not a

mind reader. Perfect. Anything else?”

He snickers under his breath. “You’re pretty feisty, you know that.

Right?”

“I do know that. But you know what I don’t know? Anything about

you.”

Again, he seems exasperated and amused with this context of banter.

“You’re really getting into this, you know that, right?”

“I do know that.”

We both break into ironic laughter, the snideness of this

conversation a bit churlish.

“Tell me why you’re into this now,” he urges. “You were so against it

before. But now you want to know things about me like we’re going

to be quizzed at the wedding or something.”

“I just like to be prepared. That’s all.”

“I understand that, but no one is going to come up and ask you what

my favorite color is. Or what my dog’s name in fourth grade was.”

“Your favorite color is either black or gray,” I reply simply. “And in

fourth grade, you had a dachshund dog. I think his name was

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