Page 45 of Fumbled Into Love

I drop my ice cream container on the kitchen counter, pointing an accusatory spoon in Deon’s direction. Running through the store with Deon, choosing ice cream, and then eating the ice cream clouded my thoughts.

I have a bone to pick with my fake boyfriend.

“No more pointing at me in front of a bazillion people without telling me.” I purse my lips, “I was on the jumbotron, Deon. It washorrifying.”

Deon leans back against the countertop, digging into a massive tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. His face is granite before his smile slips, and his chest begins to rumble in laughter. The urge to smack him silly is so strong I stomp out of my seat and thwack his arm.

It only makes his laughter worse.

“Deon. It is not funny. I nearlydiedof embarrassment.”

“I know.” He gives me a sly smile, those dimples making an appearance. “I saw you on the screen. Your eyes were giant behind your glasses.”

His shoulders shake as he heaves air into his lungs.

God. He’s so…so infuriating sometimes, and when he stands to his full height, my stomach bottoms out. Deon is attractive, but when he smiles—when he laughs with zero reservations—he morphs into this mind-boggling attractive man, and that is not good for my well-being.

Not when we live together and are attempting to pull off a fake dating scheme, though he hasn’t mentioned any issues with the media anymore. I’m not sure anyone cares who he’s dating now that they realize it’s a plain, boring nobody and not the models they were suggesting.

“You’re….You’re,” I am flailing. I know it, and the way his lip twitches, Deon knows it too. “A booger!” I yell.

Booger. Booger?! That was the best I could come up with?

I’ve never seen Deon laugh so hard in my life, and I begin to giggle along with him. His joy is infectious. As his head is tipped down, I tiptoe in his direction, ready to pounce.

If I learned anything growing up with a brother who loves pranks and ambushes, it’s to never let your guard down. Deon sucks in a deep breath, and I leap, aiming for his sides.

Wiggling my fingers, I tickle his abdomen. His eyes jerk upward in a panic, and when his skin pales, I regret my decision to be playful.

The panic shifts into humor, and I double down.

“Not so funny now,” I goad as I dig in deep, notching the tickling to ten. Deon turns inward, hands flailing as he screams. Gordie bolts away, evading the sound.

I retreat, and when I step back, Deon raises his head, tears in his eyes.

“You’resodead, Nat.”

Deon saunters forward, a predator stalking his prey.

Lifting my hands, I shrink out of the living room. “I surrender.”

“Oh, no. It’s only fair.”

I gulp at his mischievous grin before I spin on my heels and bolt. Deon reaches me in two quick steps. His arms bracket my shoulders, lifting me into the air and my legs flail as he drags me into the living room.

“No! Stop! I’m sorry! I promise I’ll never tickle you again!” I scream whatever I can to prevent the tickle torture.

Deon tosses—tosses!—me on the couch, and something shifts, the air zapped with charged tension. He towers over me, and I gulp. Large hands bracket my sides, digging in deep as he tickles me. I panic, and my arm whacks him directly in the head.

“Agh!” Deon shrieks.

I shriek.

The room is silent before we burst into laughter, Deon’s body falling onto the couch, limbs tangled with mine.

“You have impressively strong limbs,” he mutters, rubbing the side of his head.

“I’ve been working out.”

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