Then keeps going.
“So I always help Jake,” she says, like she’s stuck in a stream of words and can’t find a way out. “When he needs someone to talk to the principal. When he breaks a window and needs someone to blame it on. When he hits on the GM’s wife?—”
“He what?” I’ve asked it before I can stop myself, but she doesn’t seem to care. Not about anything.
“At Thanksgiving,” she says, yawning. “If he doesn’t fix his PR crisis before opening day, they’re sending him down to the minors.”
My eyes widen, but I don’t react. Not outwardly.
I can’t.
She wants to talk, and as much as this is killing me, I want to listen. I want an explanation. Something to makeherandhimmake sense when it should beus.
“What does that have to do with you?” I ask so quietly, I’m not sure she can even hear me.
“I’m the PR fix.” She sighs and curls closer to me. “Nothing like fake dating the girl next door to make people fall in love with you.”
WHAT?
They’re fake dating?
A shout tries to burst out of my chest, but I swallow it.
I can’t react. Not even a little. Does she realize what she just said?
In my calmest voice, I say, “That must be hard.”
“It never used to be. It’s hard now because I like you so much.”
&#*@^%*#&$@*!!!
She likes me! She likes me so much it’s “hard” to fake date Jake!
“How awful,” I say, unable to stop grinning.
“It’s horrible,” she says. Then she rolls her head almost off my leg. “Is it hot? It is so hot. I’m dying here.”
Sweat is beading on her forehead. A quick glance at my watch tells me she’s due for more medicine. She kicks off her blanket and wriggles out of her robe. She has pajama pants and a cropped pajama shirt on under the robe, and when she stretches out across the couch, it rides up, showing more skin than I’m sure she’d be comfortable with. I tug the shirt down.
“Ugh,” she says, kicking her legs out. “You’re so perfect. Why do you have to be so perfect?”
My grin only spreads. I lean back into the couch, running my fingers through her hair. “I know. I’m sorry.”
She throws both arms back—one flops on the ground, the other almost hits my face before it falls across my chest, pinning me in a way that almost feels intentional. Her breath comes in short spurts. “No you’re not. You love it. With your smile and your …” She puffs her cheeks out. “Coffee. It’s so … cute. Every day, I have a new favorite flavor.”
The urge to press—to take advantage of her broken filter—is overwhelming. But it feels wrong to. I don’t want to push.
I mean Iwantto, but I won’t.
She thinks I’m perfect, after all.
“You should save your energy,” I tell her.
“Yeah, well you should sit there and look pretty.”
I cough a laugh, but she’s still going.
“I love coffee. Why do you have to get me such good coffee? You’re so … ugh. So determined. You’re impossible not to like.”
