Page 125 of The Fake Out

“Yeah, sure.” Her gaze bounced between the two of us, brow creased. “But let’s make a decision soon.”

After she left, I wandered back over to the couch and sat, keeping my voice brisk. “What did you need to talk about?”

He stood up and stalked over to me, coming to a stop so close, I had to crane my head back to see him. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“I know this isn’t turning out the way we planned, but now we can quit all the lying. You get to go back to your life.” I ignored the twisting pain in my chest. “That’s what was always going to happen.”

His death stare grew in deadliness. I flopped back onto the couch. He bent and boxed me with his arms, one hand on the couch arm, the other on the back of the sofa by my head.

“Who’s lying now?” he asked.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. We need a plan. I have a plan. The plan is good.”

He brought his face closer to mine. “You do like your plans, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You know what else you like? Being a martyr.” He flung that out there like a red cape in front of a bull.

I flushed. “Excuse me?”

“You are a martyr. You live in this town spending all your time, all your energy, taking care of people,” he said, his voice growly.

“I do not like the tone of your voice right now, buddy.”

“Your mother, your sister, Ali, and the library—it’s all your responsibility. No one else. God forbid if you ask someone for help. I bet I’m just another checkmark on your list, right?”

I grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “Why is that wrong? You’re supposed to take care of the people you love, you idiot.”

Too late, I realized what I had just implied.

Chris’s smile was pure satisfaction and I felt it in my toes. “Oh, Sprinkles. I heard it. You can’t take it back.”

“You heard nothing,” I snapped.

“Shut up,” he said about two seconds before his mouth was on mine.

This kiss was angry, and that suited me just fine. I was angry, too. I was not a martyr, and I hadn’t meant to imply that I loved—

Chris pulled back and scowled. “Stop thinking.”

“You can’t tell me to stop thinking.”

“I can when it’s messing with me kissing you.” One second, he was standing above me, the next he was on the couch with his hands on my shoulders. “Stop thinking and kiss me this time.”

“Fine,” I said a mere half-second before our lips met again. He was really good at this kissing thing, and I lost myself in the small, soft touches that turned bolder. The way he tasted like the cinnamon gum he always had in his pocket. How the hair at the back of his neck tickled. He kissed me until all the anger drained out and I felt warm and a little drunk.

He pulled back slowly, his eyes soft. “This is the way I like you best. Just-kissed. But I also like you best when you’re sarcastic or when you don’t let me get away with anything and when you scrunch up your nose because you’re annoyed at me.”

“Chris…”

“No, wait. Listen to me. I’ve worked my ass off to play football. I’ve worked hard at being a good son and brother. I’ve worked hard to help those kids in the hospital. I’ve worked hard to be a man of integrity. I’ve worked hard my whole life, and it paid off. I’ve always thought no one could outwork me.”

He turned to me, his face earnest and so beloved I felt my eyes grow hot with tears.

“Until I met this librarian in a random small town who works circles around me. The craziest part? No matter how hard she works, it’s never enough but she never gives up. It’s humbling. I am humbled by you, and I am amazed every day by your tenacity and perseverance. I am in awe of how fiercely you love people. I want to be one of those people. I want to be able to take care of you sometimes. Not because you need someone to take care of you, but because I want to. Because that’s what we do when we love someone.”

“Chris,” I whispered, swiping at a tear on my cheek. “Please stop making this so hard.”