Page 156 of Fake it ’Til Fall

I wake slowly, which is not my usual style. Usually, I wake immediately, suspicious of daylight, like it’s here to collect payment.

This morning, I wake to warmth.

A very large, very male, very naked-under-the-quilt warmth pressed against my back, one arm tucked around my waist like it belongs there.

Which it does not.

Legally.

Emotionally.

According to the contract.

And yes, there is a contract.

Of course there is a contract. I am the sort of woman who made rules for a fake relationship and then violated several of them in my childhood bedroom like a horny notary with abandonment issues.

My eyes fly open.

Last night we broke the rules.

I know we did.

I just can’t remember which ones, because apparently my brain has replaced all legal documentation with the memory of Forrest’s mouth on my neck and his hand sliding over my hip like he had every right to ruin me.

Helpful.

Very professional.

Excellent work from the department of self-preservation, which has clearly resigned and moved to Vermont.

The room comes into focus in pieces. Rain-soft light through the window. My old bookshelf. The chipped ceramic pumpkin on the desk. The quilt tangled around my hips. One of my socks hanging from the corner of the desk chair like a tiny flag of surrender.

And Forrest Wolfcraft’s hand resting low on my stomach.

Bare skin on bare skin.

My body, treacherous little committee that it is, immediately votes yes.

To what?

Irrelevant.

It votes yes across all categories.

I hold completely still.

Not because I regret anything.

I don’t.

That is the problem.

Regret would be useful. Regret has structure. Regret could get dressed, brush its teeth, make a spreadsheet, and say things like, We made an understandable error due to weather, proximity, and unresolved tension.

But I don’t regret it.

I remember it.