Page 78 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

"You do know I'm going to go through every closet and drawer, right?"

I snort. "Wouldn't expect otherwise. Dinner will be waiting for you."

She kicks off her sandals and runs up the stairs. "Enjoy your bath! Come on, Pookie!"

Four tiny legs scamper up the stairs after her. "It's Prairie!"

"Keep telling yourself that!" Ash says before my bedroom door closes and I'm left to clean up my dog's mess.

Prairie, not Pookie.

Who am I kidding? It's definitely Pookie.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ASH

Iused Rusty's body wash.

My hair is still up in its bun—curly girls don’t use anyone else’s shampoo—but I smell his subtle signature scent on me, and it makes me smile at my reflection when I get out of the shower. The fact that I'm wearing his robe also makes me smile.

This thing is plush.

The master suite is surprisingly nice. Everything I've seen so far is. It's all been updated and upgraded. I expected his house to look like a hunting lodge or maybe a bachelor pad, but this looks like a family home. The shower has his and hers shower heads, and I wonder if the previous owner installed those or if Rusty did.

And if so, who is the "her" he had in mind?

Prickles spread across my skin like a rash.

I don't like thinking about that.

At all.

I leave the bathroom for the bedroom. The walls are painted a light sage green, and the dressers and queen bed frame look like they were made from reclaimed wood. It's beautiful and earthy and feels like him. But also … more. This isn't a room meant to represent Rusty. I don't know why, but this seems aspirational. Opposite the bed is a small sitting area with a gorgeous leather couch and an end table made of the same wood as the rest of the furniture.

Did Rusty make it?

He doesn't have any books, but he does have a speaker, a sketchpad, and some colored pencils. An image pops into my head of Rusty sitting and listening to an audiobook while he sketches.

My hands itch to look through the sketchpad. He knows I'm up here. He told me he expects me to look through his stuff. Does that include something as intimate as this? Thunder rumbles outside as the storm shakes the house. I don't always have the best impulse control, but maybe I should, right? Maybe I should be a better person? The kind of person Rusty can rely on? The kind of person who safeguards his private expressions of self? My finger runs along the side of the thick cover. Shouldn't I make every effort to show him that he's safe with me? That I would never invade?—

I'm already looking.

So much for self-restraint.

I flip through page after page.

Although there are colored pencils next to the pad, his first several sketches are all in graphite. The earliest sketch is a face in so much shadow, it's hard to make out the features. The next few are landscapes, each of different places on Sugar Maple Farms. There are a pair of hands at a workbench, old and knotted. Another pair of hands kneading dough. Page after page of gorgeous, intricate drawings. I have a decent understanding of graphic design, but I'm an amateur at best.

Rusty is a master at it, and that extends fully to art.

Pookie sits at my feet, and I pet her as I flip through the pad.

After the first fifteen pages of sketches, I spot that same shadowed face again, only this time, instead of graphite shadows, these shadows have a hue of cornflower blue.

And the face is Rusty's.

Huh.

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