Page 104 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"You can take my car," I say. "Rusty can drive me."

"We can take your car?" Lou says. "You don't let people drive your car. Ever. We have to shake dirt out of our shoes before we get in."

"So shake the dirt off your shoes before you drive back home," I say, my eyes on Rusty's.

"That is love," Lou mutters to Parker. I blush, but Rusty drops his head, and I smooth his hair back like always.

It's like our signature move.

"Excuse me," one of the three girls says. "Can we get some help?"

"I'll be right with you," Rusty says. His hazel eyes dance between mine. "Are you ready to work?"

"With you?" I ask. His hands tighten on my back, and the rightness of us cements itself in my mind. "Always."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

RUSTY

Pookie is ecstatic to see Ash, judging by how she runs to her first, pees at her feet, and doesn't leave her side all night.

I get it.

Having to take Ash back to her place last night after our date felt like watching my world go from 8k picture quality down to 320p. Everything was pixelated, flatter, duller. Yet Pookie's blue stripe glowed with an intensity that radiated light and color to the rest of the house. And Ash forgot so much stuff—a claw hair clip, a toothbrush (although I guess that was technically mine), a tube of lipstick—that each of those objects added more light.

We've worked together on countless projects for Jane & Co., and I’ve come to associate that same lightness with my consulting work. But after having her work alongside me today, my job feels more exciting. She learned our products fast and was a genuine help, but she was also curious. She asked a million questions about what I do for Sugar Maple Farms. The more I talked, the more impressed she seemed. I don't think she cared about my title, and I’m sure she doesn’t care about my compensation—Jane & Co. ain't doing too shabby—but I think she liked hearing how competent I am. She kept saying things like, "I never would’ve thought of that!" and "How are you so hot and smart?"

She said it like she meant it. And I filed away every word in my brain.

Making her dinner now feels like playing house again. We're baking pizzas in my outdoor pizza oven, and when I toss the dough in the air the way Patty taught me, Ash gapes.

"Is there anything you're not good at?"

"Reading."

Laughter explodes from her. "Cheater. And you are good at reading. You're a voracious reader."

"Audiobooks don't count."

She reels on me. "Excuse me? What idiot told you that?"

I set the dough on the counter and pull out my dough docker. I run the spiked roller over the dough to release the air. "Arlo. I was constantly listening to audiobooks in my room, and he said it was because I was too stupid to read."

The fire in Ash's eyes could set the world ablaze. "Right, because he was reading Milton and Chaucer in between drinks at the bar? What a?—"

"Hey, it's okay," I interrupt.

"It's not okay. He never should have treated you like that."

I can't help a quiet scoff. If only that were the worst of it …

"What did your mom say when he pulled this crap?"

"She always made excuses for him or blamed his dad. Arlo got her pregnant when they were sixteen, and they both dropped out of high school. They had a shotgun wedding—complete with the shotgun—and Arlo went to work. He used to rant about how he never meant to be like his no-good father, but she "entrapped" him and saddled him with an idiot and a brat. He'd go on and on about how he never had a choice but to become just like his father."

"What a monster! What a terrible, evil monster."

“Yeah. He really was.”

---