Page 77 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

Now we’re engaged, and as much as I know it doesn’t mean anything

in the long run, I know it means something to her.

We’ve been home for hours, and she still wears that ring on her left

hand.

She hasn’t moved it, hasn’t stowed it in her pocket, and hasn’t put it

back on the finger where it belongs. It’s a cute silver ring with some

kind of illuminated stone that looks like the milky way scattered with

reflective glass. I watch it on her hand as she shows me around

Ainsley’s bedroom.

“And the shower is in there. You have your bathroom.”

I take in her words, though they hardly kiss my mind while her voice

echoes through me. She has a precious edge to her tone, a gentleness

that encapsulates a butterfly in a paper-thin cocoon. I want to hold

her, and I don’t know why.

She just looks like a woman who deserves to be held.

“Here,” she hums, handing me a tee shirt and a stack of other loose-

fitting clothes I guess are intended to be pajamas. “I think it’ll fit you.

My dad was pretty thin at the end, so he’s got about every size

possible under an extra-large.”

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to wear this? It was your father's. Isn’t

that uncomfortable for you?”

“No, it’s not like he died in them. They’re just clothes, Percy. I have

everything he ever touched on this property. I can part with a Guns-

and-Roses tee shirt and some flannel night pants.”

I take them in hand but instantly drop them on the foot of the bed.

She moves to leave, undoubtedly to give me privacy, but I don’t want

it. Instead, I take her arm in my hand softly, almost like a breeze

interrupting her stride, and edge her back over to me. She meets me

halfway, her arms already out and waiting for an embrace.

We hug without needing to be prompted, the innate desire to be held

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