Of course it is.
I push in.
Her space is…Ember.
Throw blankets. Plants. A drying rack full of small greenware pieces. Fairy lights. A stupid little ceramic fox in the window with a scarf on.
She’s in the kitchen, back to me, hair down now, sweater falling off one shoulder, pajama shorts. Bare legs.
My jaw tightens.
“Hey, fake husband,” she says, not turning. “You’re just in time. I’m making chili.”
“You always leave your door unlocked?” I ask.
“Small town. People only break in to bring you soup.”
“Or kidnap you.”
She glances over her shoulder, eyes dancing. “You gonna kidnap me, Clay?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
I hold up the mug. “Brought this back.”
Her face falls. “What? No. You don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then why are you returning my heart.”
“I’m not.”
She blinks.
I set it on the counter. “I used it.”
Her mouth parts. “You did?”
“Yeah.”
“You drank coffee out of it?”
“Yeah.”
“Like…a real fiancé?”
I give her a look. “You gotta stop saying that.”
“You gotta stop making it so plausible.”
She turns, hips bumping the counter, and leans there, eyeing me. “So what’s up? You here to yell at me about the article?”
“Yes.”
“Too late. Paper’s printed.”
“You made me sound—” I search for the word. “Soft.”
