Page 79 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

I flip through to another page and it's his face again, only this time, the shadowed hue is bubblegum pink. It's a great color. It would look amazing in my hair … in fact, didn't I do bubblegum pink a few months ago? And this fire engine red, same as the one Mrs. Beaty just got. And an olive green.

"Ash?" Rusty knocks on the door, and my heart jumps in my throat. "No rush, but the food is ready whenever you are."

I slam the sketchbook shut and instantly kick myself. "Okay! I spent too long in that his and hers shower," I say, my face instantly getting hot. Don't mention the shower! Or that it's his and hers! "I'm just finding clothes?—"

"There's a dresser in the closet," Rusty says. Is it me, or does his voice sound pinched? "Take your time."

In the closet, I go through Rusty's sea of plaid and neutral button ups until I notice baseball jerseys. I forgot Rusty played on Clemson's baseball team. I love baseball. All of my stepbrothers played, so I saw a lot of their games growing up. Mom used to dye my hair team colors and get me the most garish …

Hold up.

Rusty played college baseball, and I've never Googled him?

I throw on a jersey, put back on my own underwear, and find a pair of his sweats that I cinch up as tight as possible. Rusty doesn't have a full-length mirror, but I'm sure I look like a goofball in the oversized clothes.

Sexy, Ash.

Real sexy.

If I were trying to make him see me differently—WHICH I'M NOT—this would not be the way to do it.

Good thing I don't care. If anything, I should be thinking of ways to make sure our relationship stays the same after all of this canoodling. We have to be able to go back to our easy camaraderie, to our jokes and teasing, to the way he puts up with all my silliness with that tender smile and his hair flopping in front of his eyes, to the way he says "as you wish" and pulls me into hugs and kisses my head and tells me how smart and gorgeous I am …

NO!

The Ash and Rusty Show didn't include hugs and kisses and compliments! But now that I've had them, can I really live without them?

Us plus kissing.

That's all. I want us plus kissing.

Is that so much to ask?

Pookie is asleep at my feet, so I scoop her up. Her wild ear hair sticks out all over, and suddenly, a wicked idea forms in my mind. Delicious kitchen smells pull me from my scheming, so I make myself a reminder and take Pookie downstairs.

The stairs are the same hardwood as the main floor, and I peek into an office on one side of the hall and a living room on the other. Apart from the office, there's very little furniture in the house. When did Rusty move in, anyway? I knew he had a house, but I've never thought about it.

I really have put Rusty in a box.

He's out now, though. That box has burst wide open, and even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to put him back in it.

And I don't want to.

With Pookie tucked in my arms, I pad through the house, following the smell of bacon.

When I reach the kitchen, I spot platters of food on a 4-person table: waffles—ha!—blueberry pancakes, bacon, eggs, and berries.

The kitchen is lovely: marble counters, unfinished wood cabinets, the same sage green walls from upstairs, gleaming appliances.

And best of all: Rusty loading the dishwasher in a plain black apron.

He's made the most Ash meal that ever existed, and instead of getting frustrated that I'm not here, he's simply cleaning it up.

Real men wear aprons, not capes.

I'm taking that apron and stitching those words on it, because hot DANG.

I've never peeked at Rusty's abs. I've never caught him shirtless and sweaty cutting, I don't know, logs or something. This is the Rusty I've seen a million times: the Rusty who is so steady, consistent, caring, and nurturing, yet who has surprised me at every turn since I've started letting him. The Rusty who sees me and accepts me as I am without ever expecting me to act or be different.

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