And I know, with a clarity that should piss me off:
This fake thing?
It’s getting real fast.
Chapter Five
Ember
The problem with fake boyfriends is when they almost kiss you like that, it stops feeling fake.
My mind is still swirling with thoughts of him the next afternoon when I step out of my Subaru in front of the Copper Mountain Community Center and the December air knifes straight through my coat.
I know three things:
My hair is finally doing that big swoopy wave thing I saw on Pinterest.
My studio is still a pile of blackened heartbreak.
Clay Walker is waiting for me by the steps in a dark Henley that makes his shoulders look like a public safety hazard.
He shouldn’t look that good for a town fundraiser.
He looks like an apology and a bad decision.
“Firecracker,” he rumbles when I reach him, voice like smoke and late nights. “You’re late.”
“I was glazing ornaments.”
“You were stalling.”
“Same thing.”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile but refuses to let me see it. “You ready for this?”
“Ready to be worshiped by the town I saved from boring décor? Always.”
He huffs. “You didn’t save ‘em. You just threw glitter ‘n glaze at ‘em.”
“And yet,” I say, leaning in, “they ate it up.”
He looks me over—coat, dress peeking out, red tights, the snowflake earrings I wore to look more wholesome than feral. His gaze drags slow, heated. It’s not fair that a man can look at you like that in front of a building where they do pancake breakfasts.
“Cute,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “You use that word like it’s not foreplay.”
