Page 79 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

Who wouldn’t?

But being here and knowing there’s not a whole bar full of my

favorite bad ideas is helpful. More helpful than maybe Leah will ever

know. So, I take advantage of the setup and clean myself off with

Ainsley’s soaps that she left behind.

They all smell like floral arrangements, but I don’t mind it.

My mother used to pick wildflowers at Dingy Hills when I was young,

and it fed into my obsession with bouquets for women. I brought

Farrah stacks of wildflowers when we were dating, but because they

were roses and tulips, she wasn’t that impressed.

She was never impressed by me.

Drying off, I step into the flannel pajama pants and redo the

drawstring around the hips. They fit, and they’re comfortable. But I

don’t want to fall in love with them. I don’t want to fall in love with

any of this because when Farrah and Ryan are married, this goes

back to being nothing.

We will have to tell the town we gave up on the engagement or

something. I can’t be sure what to say in that kind of situation, but it

will have to happen.

Leah can’t love me, and I can’t love anyone ever again.

Poking my head out into the hallway, I hear her pacing the floor. The

wood boards under her quick, light steps still creek with vigorous

intent. She stops at one point as if my silent, stagnant position of

eavesdropping has caught her attention.

When that lapse of time passes, she goes back to pacing, and I can’t

stand hearing it anymore.

“Hey,” I breathe, poking my head around the corner.

My eyes catch the dainty blue nightgown she wears, a silky number

that comes just below her backend with subtle, thin strips that loop

over her shoulders.

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