Page 39 of Fake It Till We Fall
Grayson glanced over at me and laughed when I started singing along to a country version of “Jingle Bells.”
My hand rested on my thigh, fingers twitching.
Before I could stop myself, I let it slide across the seat until it brushed his.
His hand turned, palm up instantly, like he’d been waiting for me. I probably shouldn’t have done it; after all, nothing good could come from blurring the line between real and pretend any more than we already had. Still, I laced my fingers through his.
The words of the song died on my lips, and I turned to stare out the window at the passing trees, my heart lodged somewhere in my throat.
I still hadn’t answered Captain Howard’s message. A charter season in the Mediterranean should’ve been an easy yes.
It was everything I’d been working for. To be the head chef on a boat that size was a dream come true. It would open so many doors for my career.
But sitting there, my hand in Grayson’s, nothing about my decision felt easy anymore.
Grayson
Maneuveringthe tree up the narrow staircase to Willa and Harper’s apartment was trickier than I’d expected, and more than once I considered that maybe in my quest for the perfect tree, I should have paid closer attention to the size of it compared to the hallway.
After some wrangling, I wrestled it through the doorframe and into their small living room.
“Careful with my walls, Grayson,” Willa called from her chair by the window, a steaming mug of tea balanced in her hands.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, grinning as I finally got the thing upright. I wasn’t going to admit it, but we’d definitely chosen a larger tree than was probably practical for their small apartment.
But the way Willa’s eyes lit up when she saw it in the stand told a different story.
Pine needles scattered across the floor, filling the air with the sharp, clean scent of Christmas.
“Oh, it’s lovely,” Willa whispered, clasping her hands to her chest. “Absolutely perfect.”
“It’s not too big?”
“Not at all, Grayson.” Willa looked smaller than I wanted to admit, tucked into her chair with a blanket across her lap. Her eyes were bright as she took in the tree.
Harper held it steady as I crouched to tighten the screws in the stand until it stood straight. Well, as straight as we could manage.
Straightening, I wiped my hands on my jeans, my gaze snagging on the door down the short hall.
Harper’s room.
The same door I’d slipped through more times than I could count when we were teenagers, quiet as I could manage on the squeaky old floorboards, my heart pounding in my chest, certain we’d get caught. I could almost hear a seventeen-year-old Harper’s laughter, hushed and breathless as she tugged me inside.
I swallowed hard and looked away, but the memories chased me anyway.
“Everything okay?”
I cleared my throat hard and turned to see Harper watching me.
“Fine,” I lied as the memory of our most recent kiss replayed in my mind.
That kiss had been different.
Grown up.
Real in a way that I didn’t dare think about for too long.
She gazed at me a moment longer before turning back to the box of decorations she’d unearthed. I watched her carefully unwrap a set of glass balls one at a time, holding each one up for her grandma to see.
