Page 29 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

Soon, all my friends are back to work, leaving Rusty and me in my office.

Alone.

And suddenly when I look at him, all I can think of is that moment when he clenched his fists and yelled "What?" when Millie hinted at the way Philip treated me.

It was …

Intense.

Intensely attractive.

I've never had a guy be protective of me.

Not like that. Not at all, really.

My stepdad is awesome, but he's an IT nerd who likes jazz and comics and watches Star Trek. Greg isn't the kind of guy to go alpha on his stepdaughter's crappy ex, even if he had known about it. Which he didn't. Philip didn’t isolate me from my family in Colorado, he isolated me from my friends. My parents thought I went through a phase where I straightened my hair a lot and wore contacts. They don't know that I did those things because Philip made me feel like I was more acceptable that way.

Just like my dad used to.

My friends noticed, though. They'd make comments about how they missed my hair or would send me pictures of glasses they thought I'd love, and I'd ignore them. They'd set up girls' nights, and I'd skip them. Philip made sure we always hung out at his fancy condo and insisted on driving me to and from work. I thought at first that it was because he wanted to take care of me. I thought he was being considerate, gentlemanly.

But it was always about control.

If Rusty knew just how badly Philip treated me, would he be even more protective? Or would it sound exaggerated? Philip was so careful. He chipped away at my self-esteem with the patience of an arthroscopic surgeon. He got under my skin, messed me up at a structural level, but left with barely a scar anyone could see.

It was such a meticulous process that it took everyone months to suspect anything at all. And it took just as many months to help me want to limp away.

My friends may be worried, but I'm in no danger of falling back into Philip's trap.

All I want is to grind my joy into his face.

But if it's fake, will it even matter?

Rusty folds his arms, pulling my attention to the same forearms that strained so hard when he yelled "What?" that I thought he was about to Hulk out of his shirt.

Yes. Even if it's fake, it'll matter.

Because no matter how fake anything between Rusty and me will be, Rusty's steady, reliable, quiet confidence is a threat to Philip's very existence. I will never get back together with him. Rusty and his friends are living, breathing reminders that jerks like Philip aren't the rule.

They're just the albatross around my neck.

If only I could learn how to be attracted to guys like Rusty instead of jerks like Philip.

"Ash?"

I look at my hunky best friend. There really is no other word for him. He is the blond boy next door, the high school football star who looks too wholesome for words, with his dark blond hair, his piercing hazel eyes, his cheekbones …

"Uh, yes? Yes. I’m here.” I shake my head and avert my gaze, because in addition to his flexed forearms, he's narrowed his eyes in a way I haven't seen before, and it is thoroughly distracting. When did Rusty become so distracting? "Okay, let’s brainstorm!"

Rusty walks over to my desk and grasps my shoulder, forcing my gaze to meet his. “Ash, I’m sorry for what he did to you. We all care about you, and we’re all gonna help with the project, but I don’t think you need any help handling Philip. You can take him.”

My lips tug down and tears strain at my eyes. “Thanks, Rusty."

He nods and sits across from me at the desk. With a small smile, he says, "Let's get to work, boss."

Work we do.

Rusty stays with me for hours and hours of intense brainstorming.

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