Page 38 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

Was it rude? Did I cross a line? Was the thought so disgusting to him, he couldn't bring himself to even text a puking emoji back? He was so good at faking the other day, I assumed the text would be hilarious! And … cute, too. Rusty always makes me feel like everything I do is adorable.

My fingers tap against my steering wheel faster than a stenographer types, and I chew on the inside of my lip.

I'm not used to feeling self-conscious with him.

What's changed?

The radio is on in the background, and one of my favorite songs comes on, so I turn it up. The DJ is speaking over the acoustic intro.

"I know plenty of people are angry that the tour is already sold out, but we have two tickets to the Columbia concert up for grabs for the first caller who can tell us YouTube sensation Lucy Jane's first viral hit.

"Double or Nothing," I yell at the radio, although this is such a gimme, anyone could get it.

"And now," the DJ continues, "here's the first single from her new album: Strawberry Fields for Never."

I'm singing along as I approach the stop sign on Poplar, but a shirtless man catches my eye.

A shirtless Chick Hanks, to be accurate.

I turn down the music and call through the open window of my Subaru. "Nice tummy waffles, Chick!"

He waves at me before shoving a hose into a hole in his otherwise immaculate backyard. He leaves the hose and runs over to another hole in the yard.

I know I don’t have time, but curiosity gnaws at me, so I pull over and watch. Chick grabs a burlap bag and stands over the hole eagerly.

"What are you looking for, a leprechaun?"

Before he can answer, a gopher pops out … of a different hole.

"Dagnab it!" he screams, chasing after the gopher. But it scurries away too fast for him and disappears into another of the holes. "I'm gonna fill these holes with cement!" he yells to the gopher. "See how you like my yard then!"

I purse my lips to hold back a smile. "You really do have a lovely yard, Chick."

"Oh, go on," he fumes. "Git."

I git.

I'm thinking about gophers when I pull into a spot on Maple Street right in front of the Jane & Co. office. I pull out my phone as I walk down the street to the diner and skirt past people without paying attention to anyone. How do you get rid of gophers?

I'm looking up humane "gas" bombs as a server directs me to my usual table. "Hey sugar," she says, "is Rusty joining you?"

My head flies up. "Huh? He's not here?"

"No, but I'll leave a menu for him, too. I'll be back with your sweet tea."

"Thank you!"

I sit and instantly pull up my phone.

Rusty still hasn't responded to my joke. Is he okay? Or have I … broken him? Broken us?

My lungs constrict painfully. I cannot lose Rusty.

The bell over the front door rings, and I hold my breath. But it's not him. The next chime isn't, nor is the one after that.

I go back to our text thread and obsessively read through days and weeks and months of messages to see if there's any clue for what went wrong, what I did, how I drove away the best man?—

"Hey gorgeous," a warm, alluring voice says before the mouth attached to it kisses my cheek next to my ear.

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