Page 20 of Faking All the Way
ASHER: No problem. I’m getting something good out of this deal too.
Through the window, he gestures around him at the guest house, and I laugh softly. It doesn’t really seem like an even trade, but if he’s satisfied with it, that’s good enough for me.
We both seem to realize we should probably give each other some privacy, because I see him reach for his curtains at the same time I reach for mine. I tug mine closed, cutting off the sight of him doing the same.
After I crawl into bed and turn off the bedside light, I lie in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling. I can’t quite believe how quickly he’s adapted to this whole situation. While I’m still reeling a bit from everything that’s happened, he’s sliding into the fake boyfriend thing like he was born for the role.
I’m glad. It’s honestly pure luck that the guy I accosted at an airport has turned out to be a nice guy who’s quick-thinking enough to pull off a lie of this scale.
But underneath my practical relief that we might actually pull this fake relationship off is something else—a giddy kind of excitement that I haven’t felt in years. For the first time since booking my flight home, I’m actually looking forward to the holidays instead of dreading them.
The next day passes in a weird haze of nervous energy. Asher comes by in the morning for coffee and some breakfast, and after that, I try to give him some space, throwing myself into getting things organized and setting up a makeshift art station by the living room windows after he heads back across the way.
But I keep finding excuses to glance toward the guest house.
At one point, I see him pacing as he takes what looks like a somewhat serious phone call, and I wonder if it’s about his career situation. I have no idea how hockey contracts work or how difficult it is to get signed to a new team, but the tension in his shoulders makes me think it must be pretty stressful.
Sometime around noon, two guys show up to deliver his rental car—one of them driving a sleek black sedan and the other following behind in a plain blue car, probably to give the first guy a ride back. I watch Asher step outside and greet them, and it doesn’t escape my notice that he shakes each of their hands, slipping what looks like a few bills into their palms. I like that he tipped them well. He seems like the kind of guy who doesn’t just throw his wealth around like an asshole, expecting people to wait on him hand and foot just because he’s a minor celebrity.
I mess around with some new watercolors I bought last week, trying to lose myself in the flow of creating something from nothing, but it’s harder than it usually is. When I catch sight of Asher doing what looks like some kind of body-weight workout in the guest house later in the afternoon, I studiously avoid watching. I’m already walking a fine line between fake girlfriend and creepy stalker.
By the time evening finally rolls around, I’ve changed clothes twice and checked my appearance in the mirror more times than I care to admit. When Asher shows up at my front door wearing dark jeans and a navy button-down that makes his eyes look even bluer, my brain temporarily stops working.
I have to remind myself that he’s not actually picking me up for a date, just fulfilling his end of our arrangement.
“Ready?” he asks, one hand braced on the door frame.
“Yeah.” I nod, slipping on my coat. “Let’s go.”
We head toward the driveway and then stop, looking between my ancient Honda and his rental.
“Which car should we take?” I ask.
He glances at my rust-bucket, then back at me with a grin. “Are you sure yours will make it?”
“Hey!” I protest, laughing despite myself. “That car has character. It’s seen a lot.”
“I have no doubt.” He’s still grinning. “But maybe we should take mine? Just to be safe?”
“Fine.” I purse my lips, pretending to be offended even as a smile tugs at my mouth. “But only because this might be the only chance I get to ride in a car that fancy.”
He chuckles and opens the passenger door for me. I blink and then step forward to slide inside, wondering if this kind of chivalry is just how he was raised or if it’s part of the boyfriend act.
As we drive toward town, I point out some local landmarks—the old mill that’s been converted into an antique shop, the elementary school where I learned to hate math, the park where Josephine broke her arm falling off the monkey bars when we were kids. But I can’t seem to keep my hands still, first picking at a loose thread on my jacket, then fiddling with the radio, then smoothing down my hair for the third time.
“You okay?” he finally asks, glancing over at me as we turn onto my parents’ street. “You seem nervous.”
“Just the usual family jitters.” I brush it off with a wave of my hand, although I’m touched that he actually seems concerned about me.
We park in the driveway behind Dad’s truck, and I can see Mom peeking through the front window curtains. She’s probably been watching for us since I called to say we were coming. She opens the front door before we even make it up the walkway, proving my theory correct.
After a flurry of greetings and hanging up our coats, we end up around the dining room table. Mom has outdone herself with pot roast and all the best fixings, and Dad immediately launches into enthusiastic questions about Asher’s hockey career. And just like he promised, Asher is charming and personable, patiently answering all of my dad’s questions.
Everything seems to be going well until the conversation veers into more personal territory.
“So how’s work, Kat?” Mom asks, passing the rolls. “Are you still in between projects?”
I wince. I hate that that’s her first assumption--and I also hate that she’s right.
