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SEVENTEEN

I didn’t sleep much that night because my brain wouldn’t shut off—replaying Harry’s words over and over again. But I was sure what he’d said at Snowflake Lane—nothing about this has been pretend for me—didn’t mean what my stupid, traitorous heart wanted it to mean. He was being a good friend. A dedicated fake boyfriend who’d committed to the bit so thoroughly that the lines had gotten a little blurry for him, which was understandable, because this trip was a lot. The emotional intensity, the family drama, me sobbing on him in alleys and parks and coffee shops—of course that would create a false sense of intimacy. That’s all it was.

That’s all it could be.

Because the alternative—that Harrison Gordon had actually meant those words, that the man currently sleeping three inches away from me with his arm thrown over his eyes and his navy pajama shirt stretched across his broad chest actually wanted this to be real—was something I couldn’t afford to consider. Not even for a second. Because unlike the other guys I’d hooked up with, Harry meant something to me. He was, without fail, my best friend now, even surpassing Abby at this point. I knew I didn’t deserve true love and happiness, which meant his words couldn’t be true because I needed him in my life. And if I believed what he said then that would mean I’d have to let him go because I couldn’t give him what he wanted or deserved, and I wasn’t strong enough to let him go.

So. He was being a good friend. End of story.

By the time I’d gotten ready to face the day, I had my full armor back on. I’d successfully maintained a persona in Montana that I needed to embrace if I was going to survive this trip home. So I’d showered, put on my favorite black leggings and a fitted cream sweater, and done my makeup to utter perfection including hiding the slight purple bags under my eyes that said I definitely did not lie awake for three hours overthinking a single sentence.

And then I’d stood in front of the bathroom mirror and given myself a very firm pep talk. You are Sam Lowe. You are fine. This is fake. Act like it.

Before I even reached the stairs, the scent of ginger and molasses wafted up to my nose, and when I reached the kitchen, my mom was already at the counter in her red apron, surrounded by cooling racks of gingerbread pieces. The sight hit my armor as a dozen memories of Christmases past washed over me—my mom standing here just like this wearing that very same apron while my brothers and I chased each other and tried to steal the candies before it was time to decorate. She’d always baked the gingerbread the morning of, refusing to use a kit because she said store-bought gingerbread was “an insult to the tradition.” That clearly hadn’t changed.

Eric was perched on a stool wearing a Santa hat and eating what appeared to be a reject gingerbread wall piece. My mom was either ignoring this or hadn’t noticed yet, but considering we’d been convinced as kids that she had eyes in the back of her head, I was sure she was fully aware and had given him permission.

“Morning,” I said, pouring myself coffee. “Is today the gingerbread house competition?”

“Yep.” Eric gestured with his broken gingerbread piece. “Be prepared to lose though. I’m the reigning champ four years running.”

I took a sip of my coffee and finally noticed Dad and Jordan sitting at the kitchen table. Jordan had his own apartment not far from here, but he’d clearly been here awhile based on the half-finished plate of eggs and toast in front of him. He was scrolling on his phone while my dad read the newspaper.

Harry appeared a few minutes later, and I did what any self-respecting fake girlfriend would do. I went to him.

“Hey, babe.” I rose on my toes and pressed a kiss to his jaw. Even this close, his lips were too much of a temptation, especially after what he’d said last night. But we’d never kissed and I wasn’t about to cross that line when my armor already felt shaky when it came to him. His dark brow arched as he wrapped his strong arm around my waist, the heat of his hand like a brand on the skin at my hip even through my clothes. My hand rested on his chest—casual, easy, the kind of touch that said we do this all the time. “How are your gingerbread house decorating skills because apparently we need to dethrone Eric.”

“Hey!” Eric said from his spot at the counter, acting truly affronted. Right here in this moment, he reminded me so much of the fourteen-year-old boy he’d been before the accident and not the nineteen-year-old he was now.

Harry’s eyes watched me closely, something shifting in them that I couldn’t quite catch before it was replaced with his usual steady expression. His hand tightened ever so slightly against me.

“Morning,” he said. His voice was low and a little rough, and my body responded before my brain could even catch up, my core throbbing and my pulse kicking up.

Nope. Not going there. I couldn’t.

I hooked my arm through his and pulled him toward the island, leaning into him the way a girlfriend would. I was just playing the part. That’s all this was. It was a performance, and I was going to perform the hell out of it because that was so much easier than examining why my skin buzzed every time he was close.

“Okay, here’s how this works,” Eric announced, and launched into his explanation of the rules with the enthusiasm of someone hosting the Great British Bake Off. You could work in teams or as an individual. Everyone got one hour to decorate, and the winner got out of dish duty until after Christmas, plus bragging rights.

Eric and Jordan decided to go as individuals, while Mom and Dad teamed up just like they always had when we were kids.

“Whaddya say, Harry? Wanna be my partner?” I smiled up at him.

His hand came up and his thumb brushed softly against my cheek, stilling the breath in my lungs while I was trapped in his gaze. His lips lifted subtly at the corners. “Always,” he murmured, and instantly my brain took it to mean he wasn’t talking about this competition at all. My stomach flipped. How had he managed to make one single word sound like an oath?

Performance. This is a performance.

It took every ounce of strength I had to finally look away. “Great, because we need to win this and take back my title from Eric.”

Mom set the timer and the kitchen erupted with activity. Everyone had their own work area and was building their houses and grabbing for decorative candy.

Harry picked up a gingerbread wall and examined it like he was assessing a construction blueprint.

“You ever built a gingerbread house before?” I asked.

If I wasn’t mistaken, there was a subtle red flush on his cheeks. “Not so much, but I can figure it out.”

“Wait, have you seriously never done this before?”