Page 63 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

Lou straightens. She doesn't get red-faced like the rest of us do. She doesn't have a blushing gene. It must be all that lawyer-training. Instead, when she's embarrassed or pretending to act nonchalant, she improves her posture. "Connor Nash."

"Oh, Connor? No big deal, or anything," I tease. "You're just sending flirty texts like he's not a massively hot star."

"We're not sending flirty texts.”

"You're right. You've obviously passed flirty and have reached the 'deep, soulful texts' level if you told him who your mom is." I say.

"No!" Lou says. "We were talking about musical influences, and he mentioned my mom, and I had to pretend I was a fangirl, too, because obviously she influenced my style."

"Just a little," I say. "I cannot believe you're texting Connor Nash."

"We're performing together at the end of my tour. It's a publicity stunt."

"You're both gorgeous, famous, and single. It's a meet cute."

Lou laughs and looks out the window, denying nothing.

Ten years ago, Connor Nash was in a duo—Duncan and Nash—that recorded one of the best albums in the history of alt-country. But the two split up right after and Nash went on to release his next album solo. It went multi-platinum and won a ton of Grammys and CMT awards. Somehow it appealed to music snobs like Lou, everyday music fans, and girls like me, who like a little of everything.

Meanwhile, Duncan went on a drunken bender and trashed a hotel room, crashed a sports car, and disappeared off the face of the earth.

Good riddance to deadweight, frankly.

But this isn't about Connor Nash. If Lou hasn’t entrusted her secret to him yet, I won’t worry about him. If I’m being honest, I think Lou's secrecy is over the top, but she's the one who grew up as the daughter of someone famous. I don't know how that shaped her, so I trust that she has a reason for it all.

When we reach Jane & Co., Rusty's standing in the conference room with everyone's drink order from the diner, as well as breakfast burritos.

My stomach growls seeing him. His hair is still wet from his shower and his eyes are puffy. He doesn't have the gaunt look of being tired. He has the look of someone who finally slept in after days of not getting enough sleep, and your body doesn't know what to do about it, so you get weirdly puffy and feel more exhausted than if you were running on fumes.

Or is that just my body?

Either way, I know Rusty is tired. He’s sacrificed his own priorities for mine again and again, and here he is, showing me that he's not planning to stop anytime soon, because he's holding a to-go cup and burrito out to me. Not anyone else.

Me.

"You are an angel, do you know that?" I bounce into the room, grab the tea and burrito, and kiss his cheek. "Have I told you lately how much I love you?" I ask.

And then I stop.

What did I just say?

Did I tell Rusty I love him?

Have I done that before?

I'm still standing with my face next to his, my body nestled into that space between his arms where he was holding my breakfast out for me.

"You can tell me that anytime you want," he says, and his voice drops so low, I don't hear it with my ears, but rather feel it in my chest. I'm not sure another living soul could pick up what he’s saying. He's using a frequency that vibrates only for me.

I take a small breath, and that hint of eucalyptus and mint from his shampoo draws me the last few inches in. I stand on my tiptoes to smell him, and when I do, my nose bumps into his neck, and he moves his head toward mine.

His hands close the space that he's kept this whole time, and they press me close against him.

I keep my face in his neck, just below his ear, breathing more and more shallowly. "You smell amazing," I say, but when I do, my lips brush against the skin of his neck, and his hands on my back shift so that he's clutching my blouse.

"Ash, what are you doing?" he asks in that low Ash-only frequency.

"I don't know," I whisper, my lips fully against his neck now. It's not a kiss, but it's sure as heck not not one. His skin is so smooth, I want …

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