Page 82 of Don't Go Faking My Heart

I won't.

In between videos, Ash flips over to social media to check on the status of our first reel. She checks a different platform each time. They're all doing well, with a few hundred thousand views combined so far. But then she switches to another platform and sits upright. "RUSTY!"

She points to the views number at the bottom of the reel.

"Two point two million!" I say. She throws her arms around me, squealing and squeezing tightly. I'm sore from the ice football, but her embrace is a balm, even if she's pressing on bruises. "And look at the comments!"

There are thousands of comments, ranging from "Um where is this?? So cute!" to comments like "OMgosh, do you think Lucy Jane is there right now?? Going tomorrow!" Some people are commenting on the shops themselves, and a quick glance at our town commerce account shows thousands of new followers.

"You did it!" I say.

"We did it! I never could have done this without you. We’re a team! Best team ever."

She sits back, but she stays nestled under my arm. By choice. No one is watching us. There's no point to this other than that she wants it.

Does she really want it?

Does her pulse spike thinking of me the way mine does thinking of her? Do her thoughts race and her hands get clammy? Does her monochrome world suddenly come to life in a kaleidoscope of color like mine does when I see her?

"We didn't need Lucy Jane, we needed your perspective on how to use someone like Lucy Jane. Her star power is a lot less important than your brain power."

"Oh, stop."

"I'm serious," I say as she watches the reel with the sound off. "Stars endorse products everyday and they don't take off like this."

"You're getting ahead of yourself, Hotcakes," she says.

"I'm not. I knew it would be big the second you told me your idea."

"It was your idea. You searched 'what to do in Charleston in four hours,' and that's what made me realize I was going about it all wrong."

"I was looking for inspiration."

"Well, you struck it in me."

"Only because you're a genius."

She fidgets with her fingernail. “You’re too nice to me,” she says, and there's that note in her voice I've heard before, somewhere between self-deprecating and self-doubt.

"No, I’m not. Ash, you don't see yourself accurately. You're creating masterpieces with Old Holland oil paints while everyone else is doing color-by-numbers with a Crayola 12-pack, yet somehow, you believe their opinions? Philip and your dad are too blinded by their own egos to see how much brighter the world is with you in it. You can't listen to them. You can't spare them another thought. You can't believe anyone who makes you think you're anything less than extraordinary."

Her cornflower blue eyes are watering when she looks up at me. "You know the same is true of you, right?”

“No—”

“Yes.” Her hand on my jaw stops my protests. "You take care of people. You treat every person like they matter?—”

“Not every person.”

“Stop doing that! Stop trying to convince yourself that you’re a bad guy. You’re not. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying … including you. And I don’t let anyone tell lies about my Farm Boy.”

Do not look at her lips. Do NOT look at her lips.

It doesn't matter if she's looking at yours!

She's looking at my lips.

I'm looking at her eyes, because a single glance down will be the end of me. I'll go in for a kiss, she'll reject me, and I will expire quicker than a mushy avocado.

---