Page 37 of Faking It with My Bossy Ex

She pulls back, her cheeks burning red. “Sorry, I … got excited.”

“Don’t apologize, darling.” I pull her close as the three judges offer us smiles and congratulations. Two of the other couples are chosen as winners, and the smaller prizes are handed out, which, in this case, are baskets full of treats for two to enjoy. No one seems bothered that Amy and I won. Instead, they’re all telling us how happy they are that we got first place and admiring the little house.

Now, if only we were a real couple with a real house and little flower boxes, and not all pretend.

***

The evening with Amy has left me feeling lighter, like I’ve been transported back to the best days we had together. But as I step out of the bathroom, towel-drying my hair, I stop cold.

Amy’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at something in her hands, tears rolling down her face.

Throwing my hair towel off to the side, I cross the room and sink down beside her on the bed.

“Hey … what’s wrong?” My hand rests on her back, offering comfort. I’ve barely seen Amy cry over the years. She’s usually the strong one, even when she doesn’t have to be.

“Oh.” She looks up for a moment, then wipes away a tear, sniffling. “I’m sorry. I sort of forgot where I was. It broke and I just …”

She holds out the thing in her hands. It’s a butterfly, a silver butterfly with a blue inlay. It’s the pendant she’s worn for as long as I’ve known her. She keeps it tucked under her shirt for the most part, but I’ve seen it once or twice. The chain has snapped in two. “I tried to fix it, but the chain won’t stick.”

I take the piece of jewelry, turning it over in my hand.

“I’m sorry. Your mom gave this to you, didn't she?” I knew how much it meant, even though she rarely spoke about it.

Amy nods, a sigh shuddering through her shoulders.

“It’s always with me. I never take it off. It’s a reminder of her and everything she used to do when she was here with us, and I …” A fresh tear rolls down her cheek and I can’t take it. I reach out, brushing her tear away with my thumb, letting my hand linger. I want her to know I’m here, that I see her pain.

“Your mom would have wanted you to be happy when you remembered all of those memories.” I set the necklace on the side table and turn Amy so she’s facing me. We’re both sitting on her side of the bed. What’s left of the pillow wall is sitting right against our legs.

“Tell me, what’s the first thing that you remember about your mom during these times when you look at the necklace?”

“Her cinnamon french toast,” she sniffles with half a smile. “She’d make a loaf of bread from scratch and infuse it with cinnamon, then she’d use that to make the french toast. My dad used to say it was a slice of heaven.”

I wipe away two more tears that fall, and she takes a deep, shaky breath.

“I remember the way she’d get up before all of us to fill our stockings. Even though we always had mandarin oranges when she went to the grocery store, we thought it was the best thingever when we’d find one in our stocking because she didn't want it to all be candy and bad sweets.”

“The first time you stayed at our house, your mom helped fill our stockings and put a mandarin orange in each one. I thought it was strange, but when I saw how excited you were, I couldn't bring myself to ask you about it, so I pretended it was exactly what I wanted, too.” I chuckle. Even back then, she had a hold on me that I couldn't shake.

“You weren't as good of a liar as you thought you were. I knew you were lying, but I ignored it because I appreciated you trying.” Amy shakes her head, and her gaze meets mine. “Those were good times, all of us together. When my mom died, it was hard to get back to enjoying Christmas the way I used to. It’s hard this time of year, remembering how much it meant to her.”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “I think our dads were just friends by association. It was our moms that were really close and all of us kids just figured out where we fit.”

“Sometimes I wish we could have Christmas dinner like that again. It’s just that my brothers would probably kill you now.”

I laugh. “I’m willing to risk my life if you’ll invite me.” Our knees are touching, and her hands are in mine. Silky smooth skin. I swear I could hold them for days.

My eyes drop to her lips, soft, tempting, dangerously close. I can’t take this much longer. She’s killing me, being so closeto her, feeling so intoxicated, but knowing I can’t … shouldn’t touch.

But I really want to.

I lean in slightly. The scent of strawberry washes over me, sweet and tangy. It’s too good.

Her eyelids flutter like an invitation, reeling me in. She's so close, one tiny breath away. My heart thunders in my chest. Time seems to slow, stretching out this precious second before everything changes.

I lean in, watching her eyes, searching for any sign of hesitation. There is none. Just a softness that makes my breath catch.

My lips hover a hairsbreadth from hers. I pause, savoring the anticipation, the electricity crackling between us. Her warm breath mingles with mine, sweet and intoxicating.

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