Page 161 of Fake it ’Til Fall

For half a second, he just looks.

Not at the bed.

Not at the quilt.

At me.

The room goes quiet in that annoying way rooms do when they want women to have feelings before coffee.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

I pull the quilt higher, which is pointless because he has already seen every inch of me and, tragically, treated the experience with focus, care, and other things I cannot responsibly process before breakfast.

“Define okay.”

His mouth almost moves. “Day.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Obviously. I’m a modern woman. I can wake up in my childhood bedroom next to my fake boyfriend, survive his dog’s judgment, and attend breakfast with his mother like my nervous system isn’t currently being operated by raccoons.”

He studies me.

I hate that he can tell.

I hate more that he doesn’t make me say it.

“Okay,” he says.

It is not agreement.

It is patience.

Which is worse.

“Go,” I tell him, softer this time. “Before Puck files a formal complaint.”

Forrest nods once and heads for the door.

Puck follows him, but not before giving me one last look over his shoulder.

Betrayal.

Concern.

Possibly hunger.

Honestly, same.

He leaves with Puck, shutting the door halfway behind him.

Enough to give me privacy.

Enough not to make it feel like he’s gone.

I sit in my childhood bed, my body still remembering his, and the contract somewhere on the wrong side of useless.

I should feel ruined.

I don’t.