Page 82 of Faking It With My Pucking Protector

I should feel rattled, but instead, I feel steady.

We’re moving forward. We have a plan.

The day creeps by faster than I expect.

I’ve spent the last few hours pulling together notes for the gala: vendor leads, draft guest lists, a tentative run of show. I’m halfway through reviewing venue options when my phone buzzes beside me.

It’s a text from Jackson.

Greg confirmed for dinner tonight. You still okay with that?

I stare at the screen for a beat too long.

Am I?

My fingers hover over the send button before I text him back.

Yes, all good.

I set the phone down and lean back in my chair, my breath catching in my throat. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller, the walls closing in around me.

Greg knows we’re fake dating. But having dinner here with him, after everything that’s happened, after sleeping with Jackson, after watching him on the ice last night and feeling things I shouldn’t...

That’s a different story entirely.

By early evening, the kitchen smells amazing. Miss Taylor started the main course earlier, and Jackson and I toss salad, arrange bread, and wipe counters in the easy way we seem to fall into now.

I glance sideways as he slices bread with smooth, practiced motions. He’s in jeans and a dark button-down shirt, sleeves pushed up, forearms flexing as he works.

It shouldn’t do things to my pulse. But it does.

The sound of the knife against the cutting board, the faint clink of silverware in the background, the low hum of the oven. It’s all so domestic. Too easy to fall into this rhythm and forget what’s real and what isn’t.

Greg thinks it’s a performance to keep Brad away.

And it was. At first.

What if he looks across the table tonight and sees everything I’m trying so hard not to admit, even to myself?

We finish setting the table just as Miss Taylor brings in a casserole dish.

The doorbell rings just as the boys are finishing their races up and down the hallway, socked feet sliding across the hardwood.

“I’ll get it!” Noah shouts, already sprinting.

I press my palms against the countertop for one long breath, then follow.

When the door swings open, Greg steps inside in his usual unhurried way: dark jeans, a button-down rolled at the sleeves, hair slightly tousled from work.

“Uncle Greg!” Noah and Liam launch themselves at him before he’s fully through the door.

He crouches to catch them both, laughing. “Hey, little men! Did you guys help with dinner?”

Liam grins. “We set the napkins!”

Noah adds proudly, “And Ava helped too.”

Greg glances up, his eyes meeting mine.