Page 21 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

His lips barely touch my skin—it's like he's trying to play his part without crossing a boundary—but tell that to my body. My skin explodes into goosebumps, and I reflexively lean into him, unable to stop myself. I squeal and giggle, swatting Rusty's chest.

His very firm chest.

"Stop, Rus, not in front of the children," I tease.

He gives me a look that could set a woman on fire, and then he looks at Philip.

"Ash is right. Sorry about that. I shouldn't rub your nose in what you lost. I know seeing Ash with anyone else would kill me."

How does he say this so casually, yet with so much grit in his voice? When did Rusty go from Rusty Fielding to Christian Bale? Leonardo Di Caprio? Daniel Day Lewis?

Best. Actor. Ever.

"I didn't expect to find her with anyone," Philip admits. He runs his hand through his hair, but instead of being the power move he intends—Philip has great hair—he looks flustered. The humidity is weighing his normally high dark brown hair down so that it's almost limp. "Most people can't appreciate what makes Ashley so special," he says.

His implication—she’s weird and difficult to love—is like a slap to the face.

A thousand memories swirl around me, each slicing at my confidence. Not just with Philip, but with my biological dad, Frank. In a waiting room when I'd have verbal diarrhea with any and every stranger. Starting a million different craft projects without ever finishing one. Singing in public. Getting sent to do a chore but hyperfocusing on something completely different.

"Why don’t you ever shut up?"

“Why can’t you finish anything?”

"People can hear you! You’re embarrassing me.”

"Why can't you just do what you’re told?"

Shame fills my nose and mouth until I'm sinking under.

And then a hand reaches down and pulls me up.

"Anyone who doesn't appreciate what makes Ash special is an idiot," Rusty says firmly, intensely. "But, then, a lot of people didn't understand what made any of the masters so great. Van Gogh wasn't appreciated in his lifetime."

“My grandpa owns a Van Gogh.”

Rusty pauses. “‘My grandpa owns a Van Gogh.’ Did you mean to say that out loud?”

The red in Philip’s neck spreads up his face. “I’m saying I appreciate a masterpiece as much as anyone.”

“Or your grandpa does, at any rate,” Rusty says.

"Last I checked, I wasn't a piece of art,” I say wryly. “Or interested in anyone’s grandpa.”

"I’ll agree to the last part," Rusty says with a chuckle. "But we all know you're a masterpiece, if not a master."

I laugh, shrugging off the heaviness weighing me down. "As long as I don't have to chop off an ear and die before people understand my brilliance."

"Ashley," Philip chides, as if I'm serious.

But Rusty laughs and pulls me closer like he's about to give me a noogie. Instead, he kisses my head through three inches of curls. "You've created campaigns that turned boutiques into juggernauts. The world knows, gorgeous."

"Oh, you." I stare at him in awe. Rusty is always sharp and witty, but sometimes he's so quiet, if you breathe too loud, you'll miss it.

He's not quiet right now.

"So, Philip," Rusty says. "You look like you're more comfortable in a Ferrari than a Ford. What brings you to Sugar Maple?"

A wolf would envy his smile. "I had hoped for business and pleasure, if Ashley was interested in taking me back."

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