Page 35 of Faking It with My Bossy Ex

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I’m the first one awake in the morning. Of course I am. I couldn't really sleep last night. Dylan was in my dreams every time I closed my eyes.

A pillow falls on my face, and I fling it to the side with all the morning grace of a sleep-deprived zombie. Apparently, a dozen pillows don’t hold up well as a barricade against old feelings—literally or figuratively. My fortress has surrendered a few pillows to the battlefield in the night.

Part of the benefit of the barrier having a couple of cracks is that I have a decent view of Dylan without making myself as obvious as that first morning. His hair is tousled and pointing every which way, and with his eyes closed, there’s no sign of his cocky smile or his witty banter.

Just a peaceful version of him, the sweet Dylan who still haunts me from time to time.

I sit up, throwing my legs over the side of the bed, trying to keep quiet. I reach for my cup of water, which I keep on the single bedside table. As I do, my hand bumps into Dylan’s wallet, keys, and other knickknacks sitting there. They clatter to the floor and I jump up, scrambling to pick them up.

As I pull the wallet from the floor, half a dozen cards and papers flutter out.

Great. Yet another clumsy day.

As I scoop up his scattered things, a photograph catches my eye. I freeze, fingers tingling.

It’sus, taken weeks before everything fell apart.

I’m leaning into his chest and smiling at the camera, and he’s looking down at me, his gaze soft, like I am the only person in his world. No one would have predicted in a million years that he’d break my heart less than a month later.

Heat rushes through me. He kept this? After all this time? Why holding on to what we had?

A wave of warmth threatens to make my knees go weak, and I can hear my own warning bells. Not this time. I steady myself, swallowing hard. Remember last time? Yeah. Letting myself melt over his perfect smile or those ridiculously romantic moves? Not happening again.

How can he really care about me when he said he was not in love with me?

He stirs, turning over in bed. Instinctively, I stuff everything into the wallet and slam it shut. Throwing it on the table, I jump up.

Look natural. Find something to do so he doesn’t find out you were snooping.

“Everything good, Ames?” Dylan’s voice breaks through my thoughts. He’s peering over the dwindling pillow wall, raising an eyebrow. “I think your pillow barricade lost a few soldiers overnight.”

I fidget, tugging at a loose thread on the blanket. “We should head to breakfast. It’s getting kinda late, and I don’t want people getting the wrong idea about us sleeping in.” My voice is a bit too casual, a bit too quick. There are probably already enough rumors about us without being the last ones out of the cabin.

“Goodness, that would be the end of the world. People realizing we need a bit of sleep.”

I grab the pillow I tossed on the floor earlier and give it a hearty throw at his face.

“You know that’s not what people would be thinking.” My eyes narrow as he chuckles, rolling out of bed in one smooth move. His sleeveless t-shirt clings, showing off those ridiculously muscled arms like he has no shame.

My gaze sticks for a second too long, and before I can snap out of it, he catches me. That slow smirk spreads across his face.

Fantastic. Now he thinks I’m admiring his muscles. Which, okay, maybe I was, but he definitely doesn’t need to know that.

He’s still grinning as he heads to the bathroom, and by the time we’re walking down to the lobby for breakfast, that infuriating smirk hasn’t budged.

The first thing I notice is how many people are there. I wasn’t expecting the breakfast area to be swarming with couples. The buffet line looks like it’s been taken over by an army of lovebirds, all piling their plates high as Mrs. Parker steps forward with a microphone.

“Good morning, everyone. I am so happy to have such a turnout for our second competition of the season.” Her cheery voice spreads out over the dining area.

I glance at Dylan, trying to hide my growing panic. What new way has Mrs. Parker invented to torture us? Between the skating last night, his face in my dreams, and that photograph in his wallet … well, let’s just say my poor heart is hanging by a thread.

Chapter 16

Dylan

The horror on Amy’s face is priceless. She might think these forced couple moments are torture, but for me? It’s like getting handed a dream I never thought I’d have again.

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