Page 70 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

willow tree on my property. I clipped the vines a few weeks ago so I

could better see the road, just in case my ex-boyfriend felt the need

to come back to the relationship he abandoned. But I feel stupid for

having such hope now.

Percy and I dig out some plastic lawn chairs, better suited for the

beach or a nice porch, and kick our feet up on the rock perimeter of

the makeshift firepit where we’re only missing marshmallows and

sticks. I hold my mug close to my chest, curled under the throw

blanket I dragged out here around my shoulders.

Percy is still shirtless after we hastily left the club earlier, but the cold

air doesn’t seem to bother him much. I can only imagine the draft in

the back room, taunting him day in and day out for years.

“What happens if the tree catches on fire?” he asks, looking around

the curtain of long vines that were unruly enough to grow back after

being clipped.

“Then my grandfather will probably roll over in his grave,” I admit.

“But it’s nothing to worry about.”

“The fire or your grandfather’s shame if we accidentally light this

thing on fire?”

“Both, I guess. I can’t imagine he’s too proud of me right now,

anyway. I’m about to lose the whole farm to the bank—and the shop.

That includes this tree. Hell, maybe we ought to light it on fire.”

“Sounding more punk rock by the minute, darling.”

I glance up in disbelief. “Wow, so it’s not car chick anymore? I feel

honored.”

“Well, given we are engaged now, I guess that means I should find a

better pet name for you. If we’re in public, or at the wedding, then we

have to play the part, right?”

I nod, glancing through the web of droopy branches overhead. “So,

this is for the willow’s benefit then?”

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