Page 87 of Betting on You

But he didn’t have to. I knew nothing about Charlie’s situation, but I’d had my own terrible experiences with panic attacks so Igotit. Just because his brain made his body have physical reactions to certain things didn’t mean he was… I don’t know… anything other than what he was supposed to be.

I said, “I dare you to eat a counter meatball.”

“Probably cleaner than your fingers,” he teased. “Rumor has it you jammed them into a urinal today.”

“I did. I was like,These fingers are so clean. I wonder if there’s a filthy urinal in which I could soil them.”

He laughed, and I rolled over and closed my eyes again. “Thanks again for coming with me, Charlie.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” he said, and I really hoped he meant it.

Because I wanted him to be having as much fun as I (surprisingly) was.

“G’night, Charlie,” I said.

“G’night, Bailey,” he replied, his voice deep and crackly in the dark of the living room.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONEBailey

I woke to the smell—and sounds—of breakfast.

Opening my eyes, I blinked, reached for my glasses, and got my bearings.

Living room pullout sofa—got it.

I looked to my left, but Charlie wasn’t over there, on the floor, where he’d spent the night. The cushions and bedding were all stacked up in the corner like he’d never been there.

I grabbed my phone—seven thirty.

No text from Zack, not that I was checking.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I heard. I turned to my right, and there was Scott, sitting at the table, drinking coffee.

“Good morning,” I said, giving ol’ Scott a smile. It was hard to be irritated by his presence at breakfast when he’d procured the vacation for us and also rescued us from a killing-by-goose.

“Your mom and Charlie are making breakfast, so I hope you’re hungry.”

“I could eat,” I lied, pushing my hair out of my face. I wasn’t a breakfast person at all, so I’d just be happy if I could find some liquified caffeine for now. I got up and went into the kitchen, and as soon as I hit the doorway, I wanted to laugh.

My mom was sitting on a stool, talking about the Kansas City Chiefs’ defense, and Charlie was making scrambled eggs.

“Good morning,” my mom said, smiling.

“Wow,” Charlie said, his eyes almost twinkling as he looked at me. “Good morning, Bedhead.”

I flipped him off.

He laughed.

My mom smiled and said, “There’s Frapp in the fridge.”

“Oh, God bless you,” I replied.

“So, Emily—do you think they even have a shot if he’s out all season?” Charlie stirred the eggs and talked football with my mother, who was a die-hard Chiefs fan. “I mean…”

I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of mocha Frappuccino, unable to believe I’d just heard Charlie call my momEmily.When exactly had they become best friends? It was a little adorable, but it made me uneasy.

I didn’t want my clueless mother to form a bond with my fake boyfriend.

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