“Come on,” he says, clearing his throat like he just swallowed a live coal. “You’re freezing.”
“I have your flannel.”
“Your nose is pink.”
I glare. “Rude.”
“Your lips are blue.”
“They’d be warmer if?—”
He shoots me a look.
I shut up.
We walk back toward the fire. People clap us on the back. Congratulate us. Ask about dates and venues and registries. I make up ridiculous answers on the spot; he glares at me; everyone eats it up.
By the time the bonfire dies, the sky’s dark purple and my toes are numb. Clay walks me to his truck without even asking, hand on my lower back like we’ve done it a thousand times.
He opens the door. Stops me.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
I look up.
“Good job tonight,” he says.
My brows lift. “You praising me?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I smile. “You did good too, Captain Grumpy.”
He snorts.
I hitch his flannel higher. “So…see you tomorrow for…whatever couple thing they dream up?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You love it.”
He gives me that flat stare. “Go home, firecracker.”
“Yes, fiancé.”
He shakes his head like I’m going to be the death of him.
Maybe I will.
But as I slide into his truck and he shuts the door soft, careful, like I’m something breakable, I realize something kind of dangerous.
I like being his.
Even if it’s fake.
Even if it’s for the town.
Even if it’s just appearances.
