Page 59 of The Fake Out

On a scale from one to America, how free are you this weekend?

(This one is best on July 1–3.)

—JASON A.

Dreamboat: Girl, you must be a library book because I can’t stop checking you out.

Me: Groans. Loudly.

Dreamboat: What are you doing after work today? Because it would be both a “Crime and Punishment” if you didn’t let me take you out.

Me: I might still be recovering from these pickup lines. Wow.

Dreamboat: I’ve been sitting on those for a long time. Feels good to get them out. I’ll meet you at the library around 5:30. Will that work?

Me: Indeed.

Dreamboat: It’s a date.

“So, where are you taking me?” I asked as I locked the door to the library.

Chris slid on mirrored sunglasses. “On a walk.”

Weaving my purse strap over my head and shoulder, I waved a hand in front of us. “Alright then, let’s walk.”

The sun warmed my back as we set off down the block toward Two Harts’ main drag. April was sort of a toss-up in terms of weather. Some days, the temperature climbed dangerously close to a hundred degrees. But not today. Today, it was warm but not sweltering, a breeze teasing my hair. The perfect day for a walk.

And for getting noticed.

Joel Reading, who owned the only drycleaners in town, froze when we strolled by. Silvia Salas—a voracious reader of horror—smiled broadly when she saw us and called out a greeting. A group of teenage girls sitting together at a table in front of the ice cream shop stared as we passed. Chris waved, causing them to break out in giggles and one young lady to drop her ice cream cone on the sidewalk.

With a snicker, I bumped him with my shoulder. “Someone has a fan club.”

“Jealous?”

I grinned. “Obviously.”

Most of Two Harts’ quaint little town square was specifically designed to draw in the weekend day-trippers that came in from Houston. It included a mismatch of antique stores, a couple of cafés, and upscale boutiques that no local could afford to shop at and thus they swapped names and owners regularly. Scattered among these touristy shops were necessities like a tiny outdated post office and the slightly larger but still outdated City Hall.

Lastly, the other big draw, Stone Pizzeria (as in Peter Stone’s family), a massive and recently renovated brick building with an enormous billboard on the freeway that drew in customers for its famous Spicy Texas Pizza. I refused to go there on principle.

“Does it ever get busy here?” Chris asked.

“We have a busy Founder’s Day weekend in the summer. Plus, we get some weekend visitors for the shopping. It’s mostly pretty quiet.”

A woman I vaguely recognized stared at us from across the way; I waved. Chris turned his head slightly and, a moment later, his fingers skated down my arm and tangled with mine. His hand was warm and dry and so very big.

“PDA clause,” he said.

I swallowed. “Of course.”

“Piper says we have a photo of us already floating around the internet.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “From the Taco Truck.”

“Before or after you cried like a baby from the hot sauce?”