Page 61 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

I laugh, and he takes the seat next to me. I lean back in my chair, kick off my sandals, and put my feet on his lap.

He rests one hand on my ankles and the other starts playing "This little piggy went to market" with my toes.

I smile and watch him.

His hand stops on my pinky toe. My nails are painted the same electric blue as my glasses and my stripe. It's a thing. Maybe it's a stupid thing, but I like it. I like the coordinating. It's like a colorful pop of order in the wildness that is Ash.

"I like the blue a lot," he says, almost as if sensing my thoughts. "I like all the colors you choose, but this one's my favorite."

"Why?" I had olive green a couple of months ago, and it was much more subtle than I usually go for. I figured any man with eyes would prefer something more muted. Females think my style is "bold." They tell me how "jealous" they are that I can "get away with" dyeing my hair such a "fun" shade. They tell me how their boyfriend or husband "would never let" them wear anything like that.

I think they're all full of it, but the sentiment is a constant reminder that men don't like this kind of thing. Philip hated it. At first, it was just hints that he'd love to see my hair all match and that he thought my natural hair color was so much prettier than anything a hairdresser could give me. Then it moved on to how immature and unprofessional I looked.

Yet Rusty's here telling me he likes it?

"It makes the blue of your eyes even more intense."

How could this man be any more perfect? "You want me to be more intense?" I laugh. "Me? Rusty, come on."

"More of you is always a good thing," he says. And then, because he really is the most perfect man ever to be created, he starts massaging my feet. He presses his thumbs into my arch, and my eyes flutter closed as I hold back a groan of delight.

"Your future wife is going to be the luckiest woman in the world."

"I'm not worried about making anyone happy but you," he says.

Why my heart stutters at that, I have no idea.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ASH

"So you and Rusty went on a date?" Lou asks a couple days later. We're driving from our place to Jane & Co., and while we should be talking about her having flown out to Nashville to find the guitarist for her tour, she can't get past Rusty taking me to a bar to cook and then eat.

"It wasn't a date. And if it was, it was fake," I say.

"Fake for who?"

"For everyone! He was playing his part. Some of the people at the bar were from Sugar Maple, so they can attest to us being together."

"Y'all are together enough that no one needs any convincing. I'd venture to guess most people have felt it was inevitable."

"Inevitable?"

"When Harry Met Sally. Men and women who are best friends either fall in love or they part ways. There's no middle ground."

I turn up the air conditioning. "There's a middle ground."

She looks at my hand on the dial. "Uh huh."

"It's hot. This isn't a sign that I'm squirming, or something."

"Uh huh," Lou repeats.

I reach over and close one of her air vents.

She opens it back up.

We're pulling up to the stop sign on the corner of Poplar when we see Chick Hanks. With his shirt on, thankfully.

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