Page 58 of The Americana Playbook

“Where?” I ask.

Fitz lifts a hand, scratching the back of his head. “Foller’s.”

I’d make a face if I wasn’t so distracted by the shape of his semi-flexed bicep.

Stop. Gawking.

“I cheated on you today,” I blurt out. I press my lips together because I’m about to burst out into uncomfortable, awkward laughter like a teenager. But when Fitz and I were teenagers, I never acted like this. Then again, Fitz never looked like this. Or maybe I just never chose to see him this way.

“Oh.” Fitz folds his arms across his chest. The change in stance makes him seem even bigger, bordering on intimidating in the best kind of way. He’s looming awfully close to the red line. “Did you?”

I nod. “Tall, dark, vegetarian,” I say before adding through my grin, “and hung like a horse.”

Fitz tips his head, his combed, wet hair falling to the side. The movement takes with it his confused grin, stretching it on an angle. It must be the high of today—I find it oddly adorable.

“My boyfriend’s name is Bernard.”

“Bernard?”

“He’s Dutch.”

Fitz’s eyes widen dramatically. “Hung like a horseandDutch. That’s a lot for me to compete against. You couldn’t have gone just a small step up? Did you really need to climb the full ladder?”

I laugh, knowing he’s being a good sport. “He’s a horse, Fitz. A Dutch Warmblood. God, he’s gorgeous. You couldn’t possibly believe I’d cheat on you even fictionally. Who would that be with anyway?”

Fitz shrugs. “I don’t know. Could’ve been a teacher.”

“A teacher?”

“You know.” Fitz waves his hand. “Like a horse teacher.”

I correct him, “Atrainer. Butrest assured. Just a horse.”

“I figured. The whole big and tall and vegetarian thing kind of made sense when you came home smelling like manure. And”—Fitz approaches lifting a hand to my hair—“the hay here was a good giveaway.”

The playful grin on Fitz’s face, combined with the scent of soap on his bare skin, makes me suddenly super self-conscious of my stench.

“I could use a shower,” I say, stepping around him but then halt in place. The gratitude I have can’t wait for clean skin or hair. So hay and all, I whip around, press up on my toes, and hug him. “I know I smell awful. But thank you. Thank you for this. For everything.”

Smiling against his skin, I squeeze my arms tighter around his neck before I drop back down to flat feet and begin heading to my room. I’m almost to the door when Fitz calls my name, and I turn around.

“You don’t need to thank me. Just do me a favor.”

I don’t have a clue as to what he might ask, but after today—after a pocket of peace in what feels like a sea of chaos—I nod because I owe him more than I’ll ever be able to repay, even with my inheritance.

“Don’t wash that smile off your face,” Fitz tells me. “Happy is a good look on you.”

“Where didyou say we were going exactly?”

From the passenger seat, I watch Fitz’s eyes lift to the mirror, staring undoubtedly at the SUV that follows us. “I told you, I need to decompress.”

“Most people decompress over a pint of ice cream and a bottle of wine at home.”

Fitz lets out a heavy breath. “I think a lot there.”

“Just there?” I joke.

Fitz sticks out his tongue. “I’m serious. Hard to turn this off these days.”

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