Page 80 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. He is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

Heat swells in my chest and my stomach flips remembering the countless ways he's touched me since we started fake dating.

I don't want it to be fake anymore.

Why are we faking anything, anyway? Oh, Philip? HA! I couldn't possibly care less about Philip. My new goal is to make Rusty see me as more than his best friend. As much as I protested earlier, I want to make him see me as a love interest, not a … noogie recipient.

And I'm starting tonight.

"Something smells good," I say to get his attention.

Rusty glances up from the dishwasher and he stops. His mouth falls open, and his eyes rove over me like I'm wearing …

Oh my gosh, I must look so stupid. His clothes are way too big on me! This isn't showing that I have a smoking hot body (minus the curves necessary for actual smoke). But this jersey could at least be cute with leggings. Instead, I'm wearing sweats five sizes too big for me!

I'm so bad at this.

Rusty blinks a couple of times.

"You okay?" I laugh self-consciously. "I know I look like I'm wearing a clown suit, but?—"

"No, you very much do not look like you're wearing a clown suit. You look, uh, you look—" he closes his eyes firmly, breathes, and then opens them again. "You look gorgeous. You were made to wear my jersey."

I laugh at the ceiling, and an instant later, Pookie throws her head back and barks. "More like you were made to wear mine."

Rusty laughs, but the sound is swallowed up by the wailing storm outside. "I didn't know you played a sport, but I'd wear your jersey anytime."

"I played badminton in seventh grade. I was a demon on the court."

"I'm not sure your seventh grade jersey would fit me."

"Hey, crop tops are back in. You could rock it," I say.

Rusty takes Pookie from me and kisses my temple, and everything inside of me squeezes like I'm in a juicer. Does he realize that he kissed my temple? Is he so in the habit of such casual acts that he forgot he's even doing them? Is this simple method-acting? Or did he kiss me because he wanted to?

He pulls my chair out for me like we're at a fancy restaurant, something I realize he's done a thousand times. His manners would make Emily Post applaud. Then he sits across from me, and his bare feet bump into mine.

"Sorry," he says.

"I don't mind," I say.

And neither of us move our feet.

NEITHER OF US MOVE OUR FEET.

When Rusty says grace, I know I should focus on the prayer and gratitude for the meal and the man who prepared it, but I'm too busy noticing how warm his feet are. I don't know how much sensation toes have, but for as callused as his hands are, the skin on the inside of his foot is incredibly smooth.

I count his toes with my toes. Five on each foot. I can't quite tell, but his nails feel short, thank goodness. Long toe nails are nasty. Absolutely no nail should pass any part of the toe. Rusty's definitely don't.

"Ash?" Rusty says.

Come to think of it, how is my pedicure? I hope the polish hasn't chipped. I have super cute feet. They're a bit small for my height, and I think they're darling. Rusty's already given me a foot massage?—

Rusty's hand touches my hand across the table. "Ash?" My eyes jump to his and to that tender smile he wears just for me. "Your feet are making out with my feet."

My cheeks flush. I would normally laugh this off, but I feel stupid now. "Sorry! My feet were acting of their own accord! With input from my brain."

I groan and face-palm.

---