The Fake Out: An utterly hilarious and totally heart-warming romantic comedy
The Fake Out: Chapter 24

On a scale from one to America, how free are you this weekend?

(This one is best on July 1–3.)

—JASON A.

Dreamboat: Girl, you must be a library book because I can’t stop checking you out.

Me: Groans. Loudly.

Dreamboat: What are you doing after work today? Because it would be both a “Crime and Punishment” if you didn’t let me take you out.

Me: I might still be recovering from these pickup lines. Wow.

Dreamboat: I’ve been sitting on those for a long time. Feels good to get them out. I’ll meet you at the library around 5:30. Will that work?

Me: Indeed.

Dreamboat: It’s a date.

“So, where are you taking me?” I asked as I locked the door to the library.

Chris slid on mirrored sunglasses. “On a walk.”

Weaving my purse strap over my head and shoulder, I waved a hand in front of us. “Alright then, let’s walk.”

The sun warmed my back as we set off down the block toward Two Harts’ main drag. April was sort of a toss-up in terms of weather. Some days, the temperature climbed dangerously close to a hundred degrees. But not today. Today, it was warm but not sweltering, a breeze teasing my hair. The perfect day for a walk.

And for getting noticed.

Joel Reading, who owned the only drycleaners in town, froze when we strolled by. Silvia Salas—a voracious reader of horror—smiled broadly when she saw us and called out a greeting. A group of teenage girls sitting together at a table in front of the ice cream shop stared as we passed. Chris waved, causing them to break out in giggles and one young lady to drop her ice cream cone on the sidewalk.

With a snicker, I bumped him with my shoulder. “Someone has a fan club.”

“Jealous?”

I grinned. “Obviously.”

Most of Two Harts’ quaint little town square was specifically designed to draw in the weekend day-trippers that came in from Houston. It included a mismatch of antique stores, a couple of cafés, and upscale boutiques that no local could afford to shop at and thus they swapped names and owners regularly. Scattered among these touristy shops were necessities like a tiny outdated post office and the slightly larger but still outdated City Hall.

Lastly, the other big draw, Stone Pizzeria (as in Peter Stone’s family), a massive and recently renovated brick building with an enormous billboard on the freeway that drew in customers for its famous Spicy Texas Pizza. I refused to go there on principle.

“Does it ever get busy here?” Chris asked.

“We have a busy Founder’s Day weekend in the summer. Plus, we get some weekend visitors for the shopping. It’s mostly pretty quiet.”

A woman I vaguely recognized stared at us from across the way; I waved. Chris turned his head slightly and, a moment later, his fingers skated down my arm and tangled with mine. His hand was warm and dry and so very big.

“PDA clause,” he said.

I swallowed. “Of course.”

“Piper says we have a photo of us already floating around the internet.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “From the Taco Truck.”

“Before or after you cried like a baby from the hot sauce?”

“I did not cry,” he said with pretend outrage.

“If you say so.”

He grunted and tugged me to a stop in front of Bookmarks, the small used bookstore that had been around for years.

“I thought we could look for our new book club selection.” The bell tinkled as Chris held the door open. “After you.”

I was hit by the comforting smell of musty, used books and something there wasn’t a word for—the pure, sweet essence that people who loved books the world over knew and loved.

“Maebell, I haven’t seen you in a while,” Miss Linda said from behind the long, cluttered book counter at the rear of the store. She was a round woman with a contagious laugh and a penchant for loud, gaudy reading glasses. Today they were orange sprinkled liberally with sparkly crystals. “Chris, it’s good to see you again.”

“First-name basis?” I asked.

Chris removed his sunglasses and hung them from the collar of his t-shirt. “I’ve been here a few times.”

“More than that,” Miss Linda said. “He’s keeping me in business all on his lonesome.”

Chris’s cheeks reddened, and he ducked his head in that charming, ah-shucks way he had. It was, of course, adorable. “I like to read, is all.”

Oh, brother. My brain must be slowly dying from lack of sleep. Adorable?

“I mainly come to hear Linda share stories of you when you worked here,” he said.

“All good, don’t you worry.” Miss Linda laughed. “Well, except for the incident when the police were called but we were all on your side, Mae. That man deserved to be slapped upside the head with On Golden Pond. He should have thanked his lucky stars you didn’t pull from the Russian literature section.”

“I’ll be sure to watch my manners when around the books,” Chris said solemnly, eyes twinkling.

“And don’t you forget it.” I elbowed him in the gut and, though he grunted, I knew it hurt my elbow more than it hurt him.

Chris put a hand on my lower back and guided me through the aisles until he came to a stop at the romance section. “Let’s pick a book.”

“Another romance?” I asked. “We could replace something else. What about a biography or a nice horror?”

“Turns out I like a good romance.”

I cleared my throat and blindly pulled a book from the shelf in front of me. “Right. Well, here’s one.”

“The Farmer Picks a Wife: A Single Father Amish Romance?” Chris pressed his lips together and flipped the book over. “Josiah Smucker is a hardworking widower with six curious children. Sarah Olsen is a wisecracking, single English woman. Will the two defy the odds when Josiah decides it’s time to pick a new wife?” He shot me a pointed look.

“What’s wrong with a good Amish romance?” It sounded kind of terrible, not that I would admit it. “The Amish deserve love, too.”

With a sympathetic nod, he reshelved the book. “I know, but I’m not sure I want to read about it right now.”

“Fine. You pick.”

He rubbed his hands together. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

While Chris studied the shelf in front of us, I studied him. He wasn’t wearing his baseball cap today and dark hair curled at his back collar and around his ears—he really could use a haircut. His t-shirt had the washed-a-million-times look about it and I bet it was the perfect level of softness. It was currently doing an excellent job of stretching across his back, tapering at his waist and although it wasn’t particularly tight, it was easy to see his shoulders flex as he searched the shelves. My stomach dipped. Forget about firefighters. Hot guy plus books… where was that calendar?

Yes, I was pathetic.

“This one,” he said in triumph. “There’s even two copies.”

“Let me see.”

“Nope. It will be a surprise.”

“But…”

“It’s a surprise.”

I glared at him and then made my move, lunging at the books in his hand. But that didn’t go as planned at all. Instead of being quick and stealthy, my momentum carried me forward.

Chris caught me around the waist with his free hand, holding me against him. To his credit, he didn’t budge, take a step back, move an inch. He was solid as a tree. About as big as one too. It was sensation overload to the nth degree. Strong arm, solid body, broad chest, those opposable thumbs. My brain short-circuited and a wave of heat not altogether caused by embarrassment started on my chest and worked its way up my neck to my cheeks.

I should move. It should be noted I did not move. It felt way too nice. Like wrapping up in a blanket fresh from the dryer.

Which was yet another reason I should move.

He was so tall, I had to crane my neck back to see him. He blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy; honey-brown eyes met mine. He wasn’t smiling though; it was some other expression in between, almost confusion.

“I’m sorry. Let me just…” I slid my hands between us and felt his heart thump against my palm. I pushed gently on his chest but there wasn’t any give. His arm didn’t loosen; I was stuck. “Chris?”

He hadn’t moved a muscle, his gaze still intense on me. Although the look there had shifted to curious, alert. Something was going on behind his eyes that made me… nervous.

So, I pinched him. Or tried. Pinched implied there was an extra bit of fat to do something with.

“Are you going to let me go?” I asked, exasperated.

He opened his mouth as though he planned to say something (likely mildly flirty and wholly annoying) but instead, he frowned, brow creased. A lock of hair dipped in front of his eye, and I had the strange desire to brush it away.

“Well, look at this. Exactly who I was searching for,” an overly loud voice said from the end of the aisle. “Go ahead, don’t let me interrupt you.”

Peter.

“Great,” I muttered and tried to straighten again.

But to my surprise, Chris pulled me closer, his hand settling around my waist. A wide smile—the one he normally wore—spread across his face as he turned to Peter. “Hey, I guess you did catch us having a moment.”

“I was actually looking for Mae there. Was hoping to catch her at the library, but I can see she has plans this evening.” Peter rocked back on his heels. While he didn’t look uncomfortable, he did look almost confused. “I didn’t realize the two of you were friends.”

Chris grinned. “Sure, friends.”

If a wink had a sound, it was Chris saying the word friends.

For a moment, Peter looked too flustered to say anything. Then he pulled himself together and got to the point. “Mae, I know you’ve been concerned because you had to let go of your library assistant.”

I straightened but Chris kept ahold of one of my hands, the contact both heady and weirdly comforting.

How was this my life?

“I think what you mean, Peter, is that you decided to cut the library budget so deeply I had no choice but to let my assistant go. But do go on.”

“I’ve solved your problem.” His smile was friendly, and it creeped me out.

“That you created.” I waved my hand at him impatiently. “How exactly did you solve my problem?”

“There’s a young man, a senior at the high school, who’s looking to do some, ah, volunteer work and I thought he’d be a good fit. I hear he’s real good with computers.”

“Volunteer work?” I asked, turning this information over in my mind, looking for the loophole. There was no way Peter was offering me this unless there was a reason. It was just like when we dated. He was a tit-for-tat sort of guy. If he gave me something, even small, he expected to get something in return that benefited him.

I guess he was always destined to be a politician.

“Yep. I’ll have him report to you on Monday after school. Sound good?”

Yes, and that was the problem. This could only mean one thing: there was something he wasn’t telling me. “What’s this kid’s name?”

“Aidan Bustos.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Any relation to Carmen Bustos?”

Carmen owned a chain of laundromats around the county. She was also a member of the City Council.

“Aidan is her nephew. He’s come to stay with her to finish out the school year.”

“That seems strange, especially when it’s his senior year and all,” Chris said. My eyes darted up to his, startled. I’d almost forgotten I was practically hanging all over him.

I pointed a thumb in his direction. “What he said.”

Peter pulled absently at the collar of his shirt. “He needed a change of scenery.”

Chris dropped my hand and turned toward Peter, arms crossed, his mouth set in a firm line. It was kind of football-player-who-moonlighted-as-a-police-detective-and-could-smell-Peter’s-lies-from-miles-away pose. It was a good look.

I tried to mirror his energy. “Give it up, Peter. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I told you the truth,” Peter said. “He needs volunteer hours. It so happens he needs them to complete the community service hours the courts have mandated he do.”

I sputtered. “You’re giving me a juvenile offender as a library assistant?”

Peter straightened and somehow managed to look smug, damn him. “You’re welcome.”