Page 18 of Better Not Pout
So once again, I’m questioning my own sanity when it comes to the qualities this man possesses. Ones that keep becoming newly apparent, making me feel like a crazy person.
Realistically, I know that there is no possible freakin’ way that Santa somehow is delivering on my dream man list, but… it’s stillweird.
It’s so damn coincidental that it has my head spinning.
Second-guessing what I know to be without a doubt true.
Hell, maybe I’m wrong and there is some kind of magicalsomethinghappening.
Frankie looks to be around the same age as Penny and just as cute. His fur is a dark chocolate-brown color, his adorable floppy ears bouncing around as he circles Penny, sniffing her out.
I’m not at all worried because she’s great with other dogs and has always been overly sociable.
Penny bounces around on her paws excitedly, nudging her head against Frankie’s as if they’re not just meeting for the very first time, and then she follows directly behind him and climbs beside him into a plush, deep red-colored dog bed that sits in front of the fire. They’re both so long they fit perfectly side by side.
“Wow,” Wells mutters, and I look over at him, watching his brows rise, surprise coating his face. “I guess we don’t need to worry about them liking each other, then.”
We both stare over at Penny and Frankie as they cuddle together on the dog bed, and I shake my head. “Yeah, I guess not. I mean, Penny’s always good around other animals, but I’ve never seen her take so quickly to another dog.”
“Frankie’s temperamental as hell at best, so yeah, I’m shocked.”
I stay rooted in place as Wells walks through the living room and into the kitchen, where he grabs a pizza box and lifts it. “Want some pizza?”
My stomach lurches at the thought of eating pizza in front of this stupidly hot man. Eatinganything, really.
That’s a level of comfort that we’re not at yet.
I know that’s my trauma talking, and therapy has helped with the fact that food is sustenance, and no one will judge me for doing something as simple as keeping my body alive, but still, the insecurity remains. I hate it.
“I’m okay, thank you. I’m not really hungry.”
He eyes me for a moment but then shrugs and flips the box open, taking out a large, floppy piece of cheese-and-pepperoni pizza that has my mouth watering.
Instead of taking him up on the offer, I set my purse down onto the table and pull out one of the barstools across from him and sit.
“So, the plan,” I start, watching him take another huge bite of his pizza before he cocks a brow at me. “That’s what I’m here for, right? Let’s figure out a game plan before I change my mind.”
Walking around the table, he pulls out the chair next to me and lowers himself into it, placing his full attention on me. I can’t help but notice how gorgeous his eyes are this close.Framed by thick, dark lashes, they look like pools of light amber liquid, molten honey.
“Alright, well, the only way we’re going to convince my mother that this is real is if we do a damn good job of it. The woman has a sixth sense. Ever since we were kids, she’s always been able to call us on our shit. She always knows when we’re lying. Which means we’ve got to put on a hell of a performance.”
Groaning, I slump forward onto his kitchen table before turning my head to look over at him. “And you thoughtnowwould be the time to tell me this? Jesus, Wells. Maybe this is a horrible idea after all. If that’s the case, then I don’t think we’re going to be able to pull this off.”
His laugh sounds nothing like the swell of anxiety moving through me. Why is he not worried about this the way I am?
This ishisfamily we’re talking about fooling.
“Nah, we’re good. It’ll be fine. We don’t need to complicate it. All we need to do is come up with a story about how we met and learn some basic things about each other. No one is going to interrogate us on our relationship, Rosalie. I’m a big boy.”
Yeah, tell me about it.
Rising from the counter, I straighten my spine against the back of the barstool and blow out a breath. “Okay, okay. How we met… I’ve got it. We can tell the truth. That you stole my Santa letter out of the mailbox, and I called you on your shit.”
“Bullshit.” He laughs, shaking his head. “My mother would never believe that I stole anything. Especially not a damn letter to Santa. She thinks I’m an angel, and her baby boy could never do any wrong. Wait…” Trailing off, he turns in the barstool, angling his wide shoulders toward me. “You wrote a letter to Santa? That’s what you’re freaking out about? Aren’t you a little old to still believe in Santa Claus?”
I roll my eyes at his teasing tone. “Ha ha. You’re so funny. Obviously, I don’t still believe in Santa. I’m almost thirty, Wells.”
He lifts his hands, palms up between us. “I mean, what else am I supposed to think? Youdidwrite him a letter. Very cute. Does that mean you believe in the Tooth Fairy too?”
