Page 82 of Fake it ’Til Fall

My heart does something deeply inconvenient.

Rude, really.

It should consult me before making lifestyle choices.

I swallow, then nod too quickly. “Good rule.”

My voice almost behaves.

Almost.

I write:

Rule Nine: No jealousy games. No using each other to punish anyone. If one of us needs out, we get out.

“Look at us,” I say, because if I don’t make a joke, I might thank him and then become emotionally damp in public. “Healthier than expected. Still legally questionable, but showing growth.”

His mouth does the almost-smile thing.

I hate that I’ve become a woman who tracks almost-smiles.

I hate it even more that I’m proud when I earn one.

“Rule ten,” I say, lifting the pen again. “The most important rule.”

“No kissing unless necessary is already rule one.”

“I know. This is bigger.”

“That concerns me.”

“As it should.” I tap the pen against the notebook. “Rule ten: no falling in love.”

Forrest looks at me.

Not at the notebook.

At me.

And suddenly I am very aware that I’m sitting across from a man whose hands could probably fix a cabinet, carry an injured dog, or ruin my ability to make rational decisions near baked goods.

“No falling in love,” he repeats.

“Standard fake-dating rule.” I force a bright smile. It feels like stapling a ribbon over a leak. “Very common. Possibly required by law. I don’t make the genre conventions, Forrest. I merely respect them.”

His gaze stays on mine. “You worried about that?”

I laugh.

Disqualifyingly fast.

“With you?” I ask. “Please. I’m a woman of taste.”

“You recommended me a romance with fake abs on the cover.”

“That man had emotional availability in his eyes.”

“That man had airbrushing in his eyes.”