After dinner, we settled onto opposite ends of the sectional sofa in the living room, close enough to feel the fire.
“Oh, I meant to tell you,” I said, my words slightly muffled by my blanket cocoon. “That interview you did definitely brought in some new business.”
He finished sipping his tea before responding, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Every romance reader in Oregon wants to shop where Jared Pink shops.”
He rolled his eyes.
At some point during my shower, Jared had changed into a fresh T-shirt and Costco-brand sweatpants. With the way they hugged his butt, he may as well have been wearing a lace teddy and thong.
“I’m sorry if it’s caused any kind of problems. I didn’t mention the store to draw attention to me.”
I nodded. “I know that.”
It had to be hard to be a celebrity, especially at such a young age. To not have the freedom to go wherever you wanted with whoever you wanted, free from scrutiny or harassment—the guy could barely pick up a book without hordes of women taking his picture.
A part of me knew that so long as Jared and I kept up our ruse, there were bound to be some pictures of me, too, but that didn’t faze me. Well, maybe a little. There were always consequences to consider.
Like what might happen when Jared and I called things off. Would his fans be delighted or outraged? Would my business suffer? Would our friends think differently of us if they found out about our deceit?
This is what you get for acting on emotions, not logic.
“Did you read it?”
“Hm?”
“Heller’s profile,” he clarified. “I know it was only a snippet and the full thing comes out next week, but did you read it?”
My cheeks flushed. “Yeah, I read it.”
I left out the part about printing out the photo of him reading in the dugout and pinning it on the corkboard above my desk.
“I’m surprised you didn’t mention your family at all.”
His smile soured. “I try not to talk much about my personal life. Too many parasocial weirdos out there, you know?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Besides, nobody really cares about the poor little rich boy with daddy issues.” I nodded, even though the crack in his voice said otherwise. “Not very original.”
“I don’t know about that,” I told him. “Most books follow a certain kind of plot formula or structure, especially romance. That doesn’t stop us from reading them. It’s the individual characters that make them unique. Every person’s story matters.”
“And what’s your story.”
“Oh, you know, the usual. Deadbeat dad, raised by a team of independent woman, doomed to die alone.”
An ember from the fireplace crackled in time with his laugh. “Don’t be so sure about that, angel.”
When he switched our clothes over to the dryer, I couldn’t help but think about how natural this all felt. Not romantic or sexy—because there was nothing sexy about chafed thighs and canned soup—but domestic, comfortable even.
I paused with my cup poised halfway to my lips. That was exactly how Kaylani had described her relationship with Ryan.
Comfortable.
“By the way,” he called from down the hall, interrupting my intrusive thoughts. “Clarke talked Soren into doing the auction.”
I clapped my hands together. “Excellent!” I jotted his name down on my list and read it back to him. “. . . Roman, Bennett, Matty, Soren.” I double-checked the list of names we had gone over. “Am I forgetting anybody?”
