Page 36 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

flat on the workbench. Grease stains her clothes and her exposed

skin, a light tremble of utter, raw emotion rips through her petite

frame and the simple curve of her hips I don’t recall her having in

high school.

She looks mature these days, even with the grit and dust slathered

over her pretty, simple features. She’s stunning in some ways, almost

too flawless to be real. But that’s not the whole truth. She has an

inscrutable design that makes her seem so well put together and

down to earth.

Her face is tight and pink when she finally turns around, not wearing

a shred of makeup and exposing the purple rings under her eyes that

prove she needs sleep—and she needs it soon. I noticed them before,

but they seem deeper now, her sadness digging trenches through her

pretty face and nearly ruining that flawless half of her.

That’s fine with me, though.

She looks real when she cries; she doesn’t look like hierarchy touches

her anymore, something I saw when we were in school together. She

was the untouchable one everyone wanted, but no one dared pursue.

She had Ryan, Mr. Perfect. She was Mrs. Perfect.

Seeing her broken now—no matter how hard it is for me to realize

I’ve wounded this woman emotionally—I can say that I like her

better like this. She’s not flawless, she’s not an ice queen, and

contrary to what I used to believe, she’s not perfect.

“I’m sorry,” I say first, hoping to ease the lines of stress that crater

between her brows and beside her lips like two slender parentheses.

“I didn’t come here to upset you, okay?”

“Then why did you come here, dammit?” She inhales sharply, wipes

her face with a wet, rough towel, and creates long pink impressions

on her already flushed face from adding too much pressure to the

towel. “I don’t know what you want, but I can’t help you, okay? The

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