Page 2 of Claiming the Fake Boyfriend (Curvy Girls of Whitetail Falls #3)

I don't do nervous. Anticipation, sure. Strategic planning, absolutely. But nervous? Not my style.

Yet here I am, standing in front of my bathroom mirror, retying this damn tie for the third time and wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into.

"It's just a fake date," I remind my reflection as I smooth down the collar of my navy button-up. "With a woman you barely know. For a wedding you didn't even want to attend."

I shake everything away and check my watch. Time to go.

The autumn evening wraps around me as I climb into my truck, the air crisp with the promise of the first real cold snap.

Whitetail Falls is showing off tonight—trees ablaze with color, storefronts decorated with pumpkins and corn husks, the lampposts along Main Street wrapped in twinkling lights.

It's postcard-perfect, especially with the harvest moon rising over the distant mountains.

I pull up to Amber's cottage on Maple Lane exactly on time. It's a charming little place, with a front porch lined with mums and a wreath made of golden leaves on the door. Very Amber, though I'm not sure how I know that after spending just a few hours with her this afternoon.

Those few hours had been... unexpected. What started as a simple offer to drive her around for errands turned into genuine enjoyment as we checked off her wedding prep list. She'd been organized, focused, and surprisingly funny, especially when dealing with the flustered florist who'd nearly forgotten the bride's bouquet.

"Just breathe, Martha," she'd said, her voice calm and warm. "We still have sixteen hours. That's practically a lifetime in wedding planning."

Before I can knock, the door swings open, and—

Shit.

Amber stands there in a deep emerald dress that hugs every curve, her blonde hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. The dress makes her eyes look impossibly warmer, like honey in sunlight. She's got curves in all the right places, the kind that make a man's hands itch to explore.

"Hi," she says, a shy smile playing at her lips. "Is this okay for a rehearsal dinner?"

I clear my throat. "You look beautiful." The words come out more sincere than I intended, lacking my usual playful edge.

She blushes, the color spreading across her cheeks. "Thanks. You clean up pretty nicely yourself."

"I try." I offer her my arm, slipping back into my comfort zone. "Ready to scandalize the town, Ms. Hill?"

Her laugh is soft as she locks her door. "Is that the plan?"

"That depends." I guide her toward my truck, hyperaware of her warmth beside me.

"Do you want to go for subtle, the occasional meaningful glance, perhaps a hand on the small of your back…

or full theatrical production? I'm talking feeding you dessert, whispering in your ear, possibly even carrying you across a threshold. "

She gives me a look that's equal parts amusement and warning. "Let's start with subtle and see where the evening takes us."

"Spoilsport." I open her door, catching a whiff of her perfume. "But I respect a woman with boundaries."

The drive to Harvest Hollow Plaza is short, filled with easy conversation about the wedding details Amber has managed to finalize. I find myself genuinely impressed by her efficiency.

"So your cousin just dumped all this on you?"

Amber sighs. "She's actually usually super organized. But her fiancé's mother had some health issues last month, so everything got behind schedule. I was happy to help."

"That's generous of you."

She shrugs, but I catch the flicker of pleasure in her eyes at the simple compliment. "That's what family does."

We pull into the plaza parking area, already crowded with cars.

The space has been transformed with strings of golden lanterns crisscrossing overhead, tables draped in rich autumn colors, and centerpieces of orange and burgundy dahlias.

A small band is setting up on a wooden platform, tuning guitars and testing microphones.

"Wow," I mutter, taking it all in. "They went all out."

"Abigail Robinson designed it," Amber explains. "She's the best event planner in town. This is actually fairly restrained for her."

I catch the nervous flutter of Amber's hands as she checks her lipstick in the visor mirror. Without thinking, I reach over and cover her hand with mine.

"Hey. You look perfect." I give her fingers a gentle squeeze. "And if anyone gives you pitying looks, I'll spin you into such a passionate kiss they'll be talking about it for months."

Her eyes widen, but I catch the hint of a smile. "That won't be necessary."

"Shame." I wink, then circle around to open her door. As I help her down from the truck, I add casually, "So this ex of yours… what does he look like? Just so I know whose drink to accidentally spill."

"Cameron?" She hesitates. "Tall, dark hair that's always too perfectly styled, usually wears designer suits." She pauses. "He's not coming tonight, just tomorrow. He's friends with the groom."

"His loss, my gain." I offer my arm again, enjoying how naturally she takes it. "Shall we?"

The moment we step into the plaza, I feel the shift in atmosphere. Small towns are like that, news travels faster than light. Heads turn, whispers start, and I catch more than one surprised look.

What I don't expect is that they're not looking at me. They're looking at Amber.

Women lean toward each other, eyebrows raised. Men give appreciative glances that make my hand tighten possessively at her waist. An older woman actually clutches her pearls, like literally clutches them.

"Amber!" A petite brunette in a white dress rushes over, eyes darting between us. "You're here! And you brought..." She trails off, waiting for an explanation.

"Tucker," I supply smoothly, extending my hand. "Tucker Hughes. Congratulations on your wedding."

"Yes, thank you." Mia shakes my hand automatically, still staring. "I didn't know you two were—"

"It's new," Amber says quickly, her voice higher than usual. "Very new. Tucker and I ran into each other yesterday."

I slide my arm around her waist, pulling her closer. "Quite literally. She spilled coffee all over me."

Mia's eyes widen. "Is this why you were late with my veil?"

"I helped her with the errands," I say, enjoying the way Amber blushes. "Least I could do after blocking the sidewalk."

"Well." Mia looks between us, a slow smile spreading across her face. "This is... unexpected. But wonderful! Tucker, you have to meet Bradley, and his parents, and—oh, there's so much to do. Dinner's about to start."

She whisks us toward the main table, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. I feel Amber relax slightly against me, falling into step.

"You're good at this," she murmurs.

"I told you," I reply, my lips close to her ear. "I'm very committed to authenticity."

The next hour passes in a blur of introductions, wedding talk, and surprisingly good catered food. I find myself genuinely enjoying the evening, especially watching Amber.

She's in her element here—warm, thoughtful, making sure everyone has what they need. But I also catch the moments when she thinks no one is watching, the brief flashes of weariness behind her smile.

After dinner, the band starts playing, a smooth jazz number that has several couples moving to the small dance floor set up near the fountain.

"Dance with me," I say, standing and offering my hand.

Amber looks up, surprised. "Now?"

"No better time." I keep my hand extended. "Unless you're afraid."

Her eyes narrow at the challenge. "Of dancing with you? Hardly."

She places her hand in mine, and I lead her to the dance floor, aware of the eyes following us. This was supposed to be a show, part of our charade, but as I pull her into my arms, something shifts.

She fits against me perfectly, her curves soft where I'm hard, her head at just the right height to tuck under my chin. I catch the scent of her hair, floral and warm, as we begin to sway.

"I didn't know brewery owners could dance," she teases, but her voice is a touch breathless.

"I contain multitudes." I spin her gently, then draw her back. "My mother insisted all three of her sons learn. Said it was an essential life skill."

"Smart woman." Amber's hand rests lightly on my shoulder, her touch warm even through my shirt. "Is she here in Whitetail Falls?"

"Florida now. She and my dad retired there last year." I adjust my hand at her waist, drawing her imperceptibly closer. "Do your parents live nearby?"

A shadow crosses her face. "They passed away when I was in college. Car accident."

"I'm sorry," I say, meaning it.

She nods, a small, practiced movement. "It was a long time ago. My grandmother raised me anyway, they traveled a lot for work. She's still here, just over on Willow Street."

The music shifts to something slower, more intimate. Around us, other couples adjust, moving closer together. Without overthinking it, I draw her nearer, until there's barely space between us.

"Is this okay?" I murmur.

She nods, her eyes meeting mine. "For authenticity, right?"

"Right." The word feels hollow.

We dance in silence for a moment, and I find myself studying her, the slight furrow between her brows when she concentrates, the way her lips curve up at the corners even in repose, as if smiling is her default state.

"You're staring," she points out.

"You're worth staring at."

She laughs, the sound vibrating against my chest. "Does that line usually work?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I've never used it before."

Something in my tone must convince her, because her teasing smile fades into something softer, more genuine. The song ends too soon, and as we step apart, a tiny woman with Amber's eyes approaches.

"There you are, dear," she says, patting Amber's arm. "I hate to interrupt your evening, but could you help me with something at home? That new medicine cabinet is still in boxes, and my arthritis is acting up."

"Of course, Gran," Amber says immediately. "We can go now."

"We?" Her grandmother's gaze swings to me, sharp and assessing.

"Gran, this is Tucker Hughes. Tucker, this is my grandmother, Rose Hill."

"Ma'am." I extend my hand, strangely nervous under her scrutiny. "It's a pleasure."

"Hughes..." She narrows her eyes. "The brewery fellow?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Hmm." She studies me for a long moment, then nods once, apparently satisfied. "Well, you look strong enough. You can help with the cabinet."

And just like that, I find myself driving to Rose Hill's cottage, a small, immaculately kept place on Willow Street with a garden that must be spectacular in spring. The inside smells like cinnamon and old books, cozy in a way that immediately puts me at ease.

"It's in the bathroom," Rose directs, pointing down a short hallway. "Amber knows where everything goes."

The next half hour is spent assembling a medicine cabinet while Amber organizes her grandmother's prescriptions, explaining each one to me with the patience of someone who's done this many times before. I find myself watching her gentle hands as she works.

When we finish, Rose insists on serving us apple cider and homemade cookies. I find myself drawn into conversation about the town's history, the Fall Festival, and Rose's opinions on everything from politics to proper pie crust technique.

"You should enter the pie contest next year, Amber," Rose says firmly. "Your apple crumble would win."

Amber rolls her eyes fondly. "You say that every year, Gran."

"And every year, you don't listen." Rose turns to me. "She's stubborn, my granddaughter."

"I hadn't noticed," I say dryly, earning a playful glare from Amber.

It's nearly ten when we finally leave, the night air cooler now. Amber seems quieter as I drive her home, lost in thought.

"Thank you," she says suddenly. "For helping with Gran's cabinet. And for... all of this."

"My pleasure." I glance at her. "Your grandmother's something else."

"She likes you," Amber says, sounding surprised. "She doesn't like most people."

"I'm irresistible to Hill women, apparently."

She laughs, the sound filling the truck cab. "You're impossible."

"Yet here you are."

We pull up to her cottage, the porch light casting a warm glow. I walk her to the door, suddenly reluctant for the evening to end.

"So," I say, hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "Tomorrow. What time should I pick you up?"

"The ceremony's at four, but I need to be there by one to help Mia."

"I'll come at twelve-thirty," I decide. "Bring you coffee."

She tilts her head, studying me. "You don't have to do all this, you know. The dancing, helping Gran, coffee delivery... you're being very thorough with this fake boyfriend thing."

Something about the word "fake" bothers me, but I cover it with a grin. "I told you, I'm committed to authenticity."

She's looking up at me with those warm eyes, and suddenly I'm thinking about kissing her—not as part of our act, not to prove anything to anyone, but because I want to know if she tastes as good as she smells.

I lean in slightly, testing, and her breath catches. For a moment, I think she's going to meet me halfway. But then she steps back, fumbling with her keys.

"I should get inside. Early day tomorrow."

I nod, ignoring the strange disappointment. "Of course."

She unlocks her door, then turns back. "Tucker?"

"Yeah?"

"Tonight was... nice. Really nice."

Before I can respond, she rises on her toes and presses a quick, soft kiss to my cheek, then disappears inside, the door closing firmly behind her.

I stand there for a moment, hand rising to touch the spot where her lips brushed my skin, feeling like a teenager after his first date.

What the hell is happening to me?