Best Fake Fiancé: A Single Dad Romance (Loveless Brothers Romance Book 2)
Best Fake Fiancé: Chapter 13

“IT’S NOT weird to taste wedding cakes before you’ve got a date and a venue locked down?” I ask Violet.

We’re sitting on the couch, looking at her iPad. She’s got about thirteen tabs open of different bakeries in the region, and for the past few minutes, we’ve been working up an itinerary that lets Daniel, Rusty, and me visit each of them in the most efficient manner possible this Saturday.

Violet’s getting really into the efficiency part of it. There’s a map open in a tab, and she keeps switching the order of the bakeries to see if she can figure out a way for us to drive one less mile.

“It’s weird, but not that weird,” she says, swapping the order of Francesca’s Cakes with Betty Bakes, then frowning because the total driving distance is now half a mile more. “If anyone gets nosy about it, say you’re still deciding between a couple of venues, but you expect to have the date and place locked down very soon.”

“Right,” I say, even though all this wedding talk may as well be Greek to me.

Thank God for Violet, who spent years working at a wedding venue and can supply me with all the wedding-related phrases I’ll need for the next few months.

“Make sure you give them a fake phone number,” Eli advises from the far end of the couch, where he’s sitting next to Violet, playing something on his phone. “And a fake email address. Otherwise you’ll be getting ten emails a day about cake.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” I say.

“You’ll just be constantly hungry for cake,” Violet points out. “And it’ll be even worse, because it’s not like you’re ever actually going to get to eat any of these cakes, so you’ll just be torturing yourself with delicious, delicious sugar porn and no chance of satisfaction.”

Eli raises one eyebrow and looks over at her.

“Is there something I don’t know?” he teases. “Everything all right over there?”

“I’m talking about dessert,” she says.

“I know.”

“The pastry kind,” she teases.

“You sure?”

“There are other people in the room,” Caleb calls. He’s lying on the other sofa, reading a paperback by holding it up over his face.

“She brought up sugar porn, not me,” Eli says, leaning back again. “Why is today the day for weird porn conversations?”

That gets a look from both Violet and Caleb, who lowers his book just to stare at his older brother.

“Should I leave?” he asks.

“No, you’re gonna help me replace the shortest route to all these bakeries,” Violet says.

“Is it gonna be dick-shaped? We talking algorithm porn here?”

“Well, that depends on what you come up with, doesn’t it?” she says. “You can ignore Eli, I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

She grins at Eli, and he narrows his eyes at her teasingly.

“The porn is a long story,” I say, glancing at the staircase. Daniel left a while ago to put Rusty to bed, and I’m not antsy to see him again, but… okay, I’m a little antsy.

Not because I don’t like hanging out with his family. They’re great. I just want to see him again, want him to be here, because I feel like a lot of things got weird today.

“That’s unusual for porn,” says Eli. “Usually there’s not much story at all.”

There’s a sound on the stairs, and then Daniel appears, tripping lightly downwards. My heart thuds faster and I sit up straighter.

“Are we talking about Eli’s thing for puppet porn again?” he asks, walking to the couch where Caleb is sprawled and making a move over motion with one hand.

Caleb makes a what the hell, I’m comfortable gesture at him, but Daniel just rolls his eyes, and Caleb sighs, sitting up.

“Puppet porn,” says Violet, resting her hands on top of her head and raising an eyebrow at Eli. “Do go on.”

“Or don’t,” offers Caleb, tucking his feet under himself to sit cross-legged. “You could always not.”

“I don’t think puppets even have genitals,” Eli points out.

“Well, not all puppets,” I say.

“I’m positive that puppets with genitals exist,” Violet says. “It’s a big world, there’s someone into everything.”

“And Eli’s into puppet porn,” Daniel says, grinning.

He glances at me. I can’t help but smile.

“Eli’s an innocent man whose sole mistake in this life was having brothers who latch onto the wrong part of everything he says,” Eli sighs.

“Sole mistake?” says Violet.

“One? Seriously?” says Caleb. They’re both grinning.

“Could you guys please finish your itinerary so we can all go home?” Eli says, ignoring the two of them.

“Fine, but not because you asked,” Violet says, swiping at the iPad again.

“Of course not,” Eli says, smirking.

“Daniel, come over here,” Violet orders.

He gets up. Caleb sprawls again. Violet scoots down, squishing Eli, until there’s room for four people on this couch, and Daniel settles in, smashed against me.

We share a look. A smile. He puts his arm around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and strangely, it is.

It still gets a knowing eyebrow raise from Eli, though, so I focus on the iPad and ignore it.

“All right,” she says, pulling up a document. It’s a rough itinerary. I didn’t even see her make it. “Your first cake appointment is at eleven a.m. At Susie Q’s Cakes in Grotonsville, and your last appointment is at five p.m. at the Frosted Fig in Dry Run.”

“Are there any in-between?” Daniel asks, leaning into me.

His beard catches slightly in my hair, which is medium-large right now, and I pull the strand back, tuck it behind my ear.

“There are five in-between,” Violet says, and switches to the map on the iPad. “Caleb’s figuring out which order they should be in, so you have the least amount of driving to do.”

“Circle,” Caleb calls.

“They’re not in a circle,” Violet says.

“Make the route as circular as you can,” he says, back to reading his book. “There it is. The algorithm magic.”

Violet sighs.

“What are we keeping you around for, then?” she teases.

“My charm and good looks,” Caleb answers, going back to his book.

I lean into the crook of Daniel’s shoulder, trying to look like I’m not sort of smelling him while definitely smelling him. The scent of the brewery has pretty much soaked into his skin, the smell of earthy-sweet roasted grain, plus there’s a note of something else, something rich but faint.

Beard oil? I think. Does he use beard oil?

“Okay, I’ll draw a circle and put together an itinerary for you guys,” Violet is saying. She flips the cover of the iPad closed and tosses it onto the coffee table, then leans back. Eli puts his arm around her as she yawns.

“I should get home,” I tell Daniel. “I’ve got work in the morning.”

I don’t need to tell Daniel that I’ve got work in the morning. I’ve got work every weekday morning. That’s what work is, but I need something to say.

He looks over at me, his arm still around my shoulders, his face quiet and thoughtful and smiling all at once, and I’m pretty sure that right now he can read my mind:

I just need to be alone with you.

“I’ll walk you out,” he says, and we rise.

LEAVING the Loveless house always takes twenty minutes, no matter what. I could be taking someone to the emergency room and somehow, I’d be waylaid anyway.

I bid farewell to Violet and Eli. I say goodbye to Caleb, then to Clara, then, somehow, to Eli again. Daniel needs to go get shoes so Clara strikes up a conversation, and when Daniel comes back we’re so embroiled in a discussion of whether there should be a stoplight at the intersection of Lawton Drive and Sheers Road that he has to wait another five minutes to walk me out.

Violet and Eli have already managed to leave without discussing a stoplight. Someday I’d like to learn their ways.

Finally, we go. He opens the door for me, his hand on my lower back as we leave, head down the porch stairs, the porch light fading behind us. Daniel glances back, takes my hand.

Then he gives me the wickedest grin I’ve ever seen and pulls me behind the cab of Caleb’s truck, pushing me against the cool glass and metal, his lips on mine again before I can think.

It’s fierce, ferocious, hungry. He’s got a hand in my hair again, my head back against the truck window and my own fingers somehow replace his belt loops, tug his hips toward mine.

We kiss so hard that teeth scrape my lip. I open my mouth under his and deepen the kiss. My hands replace their way to skin, his muscles shifting underneath. He’s got a hand on my face, cupping my chin, like he’s making sure I can’t escape.

When it ends, we’re both breathing like we ran a mile. He leans his hand next to my head, on the glass of the truck window, and I put my hand on his forearm.

“They think we’re engaged,” I say, still trying to catch my breath. “We don’t have to hide.”

Daniel just chuckles.

“You really want to do that where my mother can see us?” he teases, still breathless. “Maybe we can go back in there, see if Caleb will give us some pointers.”

He moves his hand to my face, traces the bottom of my lower lip in the dark with his thumb.

“We’re going to need a flow chart,” I murmur.

“Of who thinks what?” Daniel asks, and I just nod.

He puts his forehead against mine.

“And what do you think?”

“I think you should kiss me again,” I say, and he does.

It’s slower, more deliberate, just as deep. We explore each other, fingers and hands and tongues, and I’m surprised at how familiar it all seems, like I’m finally visiting a place I’ve only seen in photographs.

It’s new, but it’s not strange.

Suddenly, the porch light goes off, and we both turn around. I peek through the windows of the truck, but nothing seems to be happening.

“Did we just get busted?” I whisper.

“You know, we are adults,” Daniel says, his lips so close to my ear that his voice buzzes.

“I think making out behind your brother’s truck in your mom’s driveway negates any possible adulthood we may have reached,” I say, and Daniel laughs.

“They probably don’t realize we’re still out here,” he murmurs. “Eventually I’m going to have to knock to get back in because I don’t have my keys.”

“You can’t climb back in that window?” I ask.

“The last time I did that I was about a foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter,” he says. “Besides, I think we cut that tree branch down. Not that I’d trust it anymore.”

“So you’re stuck out here until you work up the nerve to go back in,” I tease.

“Yeah, it’s terrible,” he says.

We kiss again. We kiss some more. We make out like teenagers who’ve just discovered tongue kissing. It’s dark now, the moon thin tonight, foliage waving overhead. His hands wander under my shirt and I wonder for several desperate moments whether we could just hop into the back of this truck and not get caught.

I don’t suggest it. I have at least that much dignity; not to mention the thought of getting caught bare-assed by Clarabelle Loveless is enough to keep my pants on.

“Okay,” I finally say, one hand on his chest.

“That’s all?” he says, the smile in his eyes evident even in starlight. “Okay?”

“What, it’s not good enough for you?” I tease.

“I was hoping that breaking my own rules after six years would at least get a great,” he says.

Right. There were six years between the first kiss and tonight.

Six years of friendship, of constant texting, of watching Rusty get bigger and learn to speak and ride a bike and read books, six years of Daniel surprising me with Chinese takeout and brownies when I’d had a bad day, six years of coming over after Rusty’s bedtime and pouring him whiskey and commiserating while he talked about Crystal.

Six years of forgetting our kiss and in its place, building something else entirely.

“We should talk,” I say, and Daniel nods.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “It’s Monday.”

“Ballet?”

“Can I come over?” he asks.

My breath catches in my throat, a rush suddenly swirling through me.

“To talk?”

We just look at each other for a long moment. Every Monday at five-thirty, Rusty has ballet lessons downtown, three blocks from my apartment, so Daniel has an hour to kill. Sometimes he comes over and we hang out. Sometimes we meet for coffee, or for beer, or just to walk around Sprucevale and talk about nothing.

If he comes over tomorrow, we’re not going to be talking, and we both know it.

“Come on,” he says. “This time I’ll actually walk you to your car.”