Who was this man?
A goddamn unicorn, that’s who.
He had been inside the store before—months ago, long before our arrangement—but as far as I knew, it had only been that one time. I hadn’t taken him seriously then.
Just as I hadn’t taken him seriously since.
Fuck. What have I done?
“What about the June book?”
He strummed a finger against his cheek. “The rockstar romance. It was good, but not great.”
“And May?”
“Was that the ménage?” I nodded. “That’s probably my favorite so far. In fact, I went back and read the rest of the series.”
“There’s a new one out next month.”
His cheeks pinkened. “I know. I, uh, already preordered it.”
I sucked in a breath and blinked rapidly. The answer was staring me right in the face, no matter how much I didn’t want to believe it.
I’d broken the cardinal rule—of love and literature—and judged a book by its cover.
Jared’s loveable goof façade wasn’t a façade at all. This man had shown me exactly who he was since the night we’d met—a dedicated athlete who adored his friends, put together one hell of a potato board, did what he could to turn even the sourest of pusses’ frowns upside down, and read romance novels for fun.
And I had goaded him into pretending he was my boyfriend.
Asshole, party of one.
“I— I’m sorry.”
He wrinkled his brow. “What?”
My hand slipped down to cover my stomach and keep the butterflies fluttering inside of it at bay. “I owe you an apology.”
“I don’t think—”
“I do.”
He opened his mouth as if to say something but stopped, allowing me to continue. “I misjudged you. All this time, I thought you were just another loud-mouthed, arrogant jock. I, um, kind of have a bad history with those.”
Understanding dawned across his face. “Ryan?”
I shrugged. “Amongst others. It never really all clicked together until just now, though.” Two weeks as Jared Pink’s pretend girlfriend had done more for me than two years in therapy. “I’m sorry for using you.”
“We’re cool.” He wet his lips. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“This whole ‘fake dating’ thing. Is it just to get back at him in some way or make him jealous—”
“No.” His eyes widened at my abrupt response. “It’s not really about him at all.”
“Who’s it about then?”
There was no way to say it without looking like a selfish asshole. Not if I wanted to be completely honest with him—and myself. I thought I owed us both that.
