Page 23 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"Don't act like you don't know what Sugar Maple Farms is," I say with an eye roll.

"Sure I do," Philip says. Then he hums the jingle they had in the 2000s, back when they were trying to market themselves as "Nature's Doritos." It wasn't a good look.

Rusty shrugs. "We've come a long way since then, thanks to Ash and her company. But you're right: I'm a farm boy, through and through. Tag Carville was my mentor, and he'll always be my hero."

This is a tricky spot for Philip. Tag Carville died a billionaire, and Rusty just name dropped the heck out of him. Philip doesn't know what Rusty does … and I'm embarrassed to admit, I don't really, either. I know he works an unholy number of hours and talks about the fruit stands and farmer's markets sometimes with Tripp. But it's not like he's a farm hand or warehouse worker.

How do I not know what Rusty does?

"How about you?" Rusty asks Philip.

"I'm the Senior Director of Business Development for Dumfries Holding."

"You mean you're 'a' Senior Director of Business of Development. Not 'the'. There are like a dozen of you."

"Yeah, we're a three billion dollar company." Philip scoffs. "There are a few of us."

"That's so fun," I say. "You're thirty-three and you're finally a senior director. I know how much that bugged you that you were the oldest of your cousins not to be one yet. Good for you."

Rusty ducks his head and clears his throat. I feel him laugh, though.

"And your little ad agency is doing panties commercials," Philip says. "You must be so proud."

Rusty stiffens. Like, every muscle I'm touching—and I'm touching a lot of them—goes totally rigid. Wow, he is super muscly. I pat his stomach.

Hello, tummy waffles.

"Are you for real?" I ask Rusty. "Where have you been hiding these things?"

He laughs outright, but he's still tight and standing stick straight. Why? Oh, right, Philip said something super rude.

"Uh, yeah," I say to Philip, not moving my hand from Rusty's stomach. Also, my thoughts. They are very, very focused on those abs. "Yeah, we're crushing it."

I look back up at Rusty in disbelief. His nostrils are flared in clear offense, but I'm having a hard time caring. I want to sneak a peek at these suckers. But also …

I don't.

Rusty's worth too much to reduce to something as dumb as hot abs. Because if he gained a hundred pounds, I wouldn't care about him any less. He wouldn't be any less special or important to me.

It pains a primal part of me to do this, but I drop my hand from his torso and drag my thoughts back to our discussion. Which was …

"Philip. What are you doing here, anyway?" I ask, though I already know.

"I'm here to give Sugar Maple the Dumfries treatment." He holds his hands out expansively.

"Oh, you mean the treatment where you move into town and replace all the cool, ragtag Mom and Pop shops and replace them with your cookie cutter shopping centers? Including that actual cookie place that uses margarine instead of butter?"

"You didn't mind those cookies back when you were working for us," Philip says.

"That's where Philip and I met," I tell Rusty. "I was working for a firm Dumfries hired, and Philip poached me to do ads in-house."

"And Ash was the best," Philip says in a rare compliment that makes me wonder if he believes it or not.

I'm disgusted to admit I want him to believe it.

My father tried to give me the Frank Moore treatment my whole life: be a perfect Stepford Daughter who always looks the right way and acts the right way so that Frank Moore can look better by association. My hair was never straight enough, my contacts bugged my eyes and I couldn’t stop rubbing them, I didn’t do well in STEM subjects the way he wanted but crushed the arts. I sucked at tennis and golf. My existence was a constant blow to his ego.

His rejection was a constant blow to mine.

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