Page 18 of Faking All the Way
“No problem. This is really good, by the way.”
She looks pleased. “So what’s your favorite type of food? Italian, obviously, but in general?”
From there, we start trading basic information about ourselves. I learn that she and Samantha almost got matching tattoos right after her breakup with Daniel, but Kat chickened out at the last minute because she’s squeamish about the sight of blood. She tells me Josephine is two years older and has always been the responsible one, the one their parents never had to worry about. Her favorite movie is some animated thing I’ve never heard of, and she admits she’s terrible at remembering to return phone calls.
I tell her about growing up in Wisconsin, about playing hockey in high school and college in Ohio. I keep the family stuff vague, just mentioning that my dad lives in Virginia now, which she already knew, and that my mom died a few years ago.
She asks what it’s like playing professional hockey, and I find myself telling her stories about road trips and the weird superstitions that players develop during playoff runs. She tells me a bit about illustration work, something I know basically nothing about, and her eyes light up as she talks about how she sees things in her head and then has to try to translate them onto paper.
At some point, I glance down at my phone and realize it’s after nine. We finished eating at least an hour ago, but we got caught up talking and neither of us made any move to clear the table.
“Shit, I should let you get some rest,” I say, standing up and starting to stack plates. “I didn’t realize how late it was.”
She looks startled when she checks her own phone. “Oh wow, neither did I. Time kind of got away from us.”
She tries to wave me off when I start carrying dishes to the sink, but I ignore her protests, so she insists that she’ll help too. We set up an assembly line where she washes and I dry. As I stand next to her at the counter, I can’t help glancing down at her, our arms almost brushing. She’s shorter than I first thought, maybe five-six, with a soft roundness to her face that matches the rest of her. Her eyes are a bright green that seem to light up when she gets excited about something, the way she did when she talked about her art, although right now she’s wearing a slightly serious expression as she focuses on scrubbing pasta sauce from the inside of the pot.
She walks me to the back door once the dishes are done and put away, looking slightly awkward, as if she’s not sure how to end the evening.
“I’ll probably see you tomorrow,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
I chuckle. “I can’t function without coffee in the morning, so you’ll definitely see me. Assuming you don’t mind me raiding your kitchen again.”
She grins at that, and I find myself grinning back. “I think I can handle that.”
I head across the snowy lawn toward the guest house, my breath visible in the cold air. The temperature has dropped since this afternoon, and I can hear the wind picking up in the trees surrounding the property.
It’s only as I’m letting myself back into the guest house that a realization hits me. Our dinner was supposed to be about learning basic information about each other so we could sell our ‘relationship’ to her family—but somewhere in the middle of all that talking and laughing, it started feeling less like preparation for this fake dating thing and more like anactualdate.
I shake that thought off as I hang up my jacket. Dating is the last thing on my mind right now, the last thing I need in my life. Between the uncertainty with my career and whatever’s going to happen when I see Edward, I’ve got enough on my plate without adding romantic complications to the mix.
Besides, I swore off love years ago.
Chapter Nine
Kat
Now that Asher’s gone back to the guest house, I pad through the main cabin and head upstairs, feeling this weird mix of energy and exhaustion. This morning, I woke up in my little apartment in Philadelphia, dreading the next few weeks of holiday awkwardness and family questions about my love life. Tonight, I’m going to bed in Sam’s cabin with a fake boyfriend who’s somehow managed to charm my entire family in the span of a few hours.
Thankfully, I wasn’t as tongue-tied around him as I thought I’d be once we settled into dinner. Despite being intimidatingly handsome—seriously, the man looks like he stepped off the cover of a fitness magazine—he’s surprisingly easy to talk to. No ego, no pretension, just normal conversation about normal things. Well, as normal as anything can be when you’re learning basic facts about someone you’re supposed to have been dating for seven months.
When I reach the bedroom, I’m reminded that I can see into the guest house from here too, just like I can from downstairs.The curtains are open across the way, and I can see Asher moving around, probably getting ready for bed.
I should look away. I know I should. But I don’t.
I watch as he pulls off his sweater, revealing a white t-shirt underneath that fits him in a way that should probably be illegal. My stomach does this little flutter at the flex of his muscles, the way the fabric pulls across his chest and shoulders. Jesus, the man is built like he was designed by someone who’s somehow peeked in on all of my dirtiest dreams.
Suddenly very aware that if I can see him, he can probably see me too, I grab the sleep clothes I unpacked into the dresser earlier and head into the bathroom to change. The last thing I need is to get caught staring at him like some kind of creeper on day one of our arrangement.
In the bathroom, I change into my pajamas—soft cotton pants and an oversized t-shirt that I stole from an ex-boyfriend about three moves ago. While I’m in there, I brush my teeth too, my mind wandering as I go through the familiar routine.
An idea hits me for a character, the way they sometimes do at random moments. Some kind of woodland creature, maybe a fox with oversized ears or a rabbit wearing a tiny scarf. I love creating animal characters for children’s books—there’s something about giving personality to creatures that are already naturally adorable that never gets old.
I quickly hurry back to the bedroom for the sketchbook I always keep on the nightstand and flip to a clean page. I sketch it out fast, just rough lines and basic shapes so I won’t forget the concept later. The sketchbook is filled with similar drawings—quick character ideas, random doodles, half-formed concepts that pop into my head at weird times. It’s sort of my brain dump space, the place where I capture ideas before they disappear.
Once I’m satisfied with the rough sketch, I set the book aside and pick up my phone to text Samantha. Thankfully, theresearch base she’s stationed at has WiFi, so we can still trade messages even from halfway around the world.
ME: Hope things are going well in Antarctica! *penguin emoji* Just wanted to let you know I made it to the cabin safely. Thanks for all the food you left. I seriously owe you big time.
