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Chapter eighteen

Robbie

“Do you think they’ll notice if I steal one of these muffins?

” I carefully set the last freshly baked banana nut muffin inside the pastel-pink bakery box that has the Naomi’s Nummy Bakery logo printed on the top right portion, right above the window.

The rest of the boxes she ordered last week are stacked neatly on the corner of her countertop with an extra shipment of them tucked away in her office.

“Uh, yeah,” she retorts with a chuckle from the sink. “Seeing as they ordered eight of them, I would imagine they won’t be happy if I deliver the box with only seven.”

“Rats.” I pause before trying another angle. “You know what I was thinking? I don’t know why I didn’t negotiate this into our plan details, but I think I deserve payment for being your fake boyfriend. These long, tedious hours of acting are starting to get to me.”

“Is that so?” Her tone is unbothered as she scrubs dishes.

“It’s just so physically and emotionally taxing—”

“I saved you an extra muffin,” she cuts in, pointing to a lone one tucked behind her recipe book next to the refrigerator.

“Oh, sweet. Never mind, I’m good.” I grab and bite into the still-warm muffin. I let out a hum of approval as I manually key in the customer order on the spreadsheet from her computer. “So should we do some practicing before we head to your parents’?”

She lets out a long dramatic sigh while drying her hands on a towel.

“I’m going to assume that displeasure is in reference to dinner tonight and not my practice sessions.”

“As much as I truly love your ideas, we’re running out of time. I still need to change,” she says as she checks her watch.

“No worries. I’ll just shout to you from out here,” I offer, following her out of the kitchen.

“Is that really necessary?”

“Yes. I want you to feel confident going into tonight. Go ahead, get ready.” I shoo her into the bedroom while I head for my backpack that I’ve been storing in her office. I pull out my black button-up shirt—the fanciest option I have—before taking the T-shirt off my back to stuff inside.

“Are we going to be strong and assertive tonight?” I call out, loud enough so she can hear me from the other side of the house.

“Yes.” Her muffled voice is weak behind the cracked open door of her bedroom.

“Are we going to let your dad walk all over us?”

“No.”

“Louder.” I cross the room to the couch to sit, pulling some socks on.

“NO!” The rise in her aggression could either be toward the exercise or directed at me. I’m honestly okay with either in this situation.

“Are we going to speak up if we’re not shown the bare minimum amount of respect?”

“Yes.”

She comes out just as I’m stuffing a stray sweatshirt I found along the back of the couch into my backpack.

“I saw that,” she laughs, just as I toss the bag back into the office. Then she gestures at the living room while I struggle to maintain focus on anything other than the way she looks. “For real, though, it looks nice in here, Robbie. Thanks for keeping your mess somewhat contained.”

I open my mouth to reply with a witty remark, but I’m too distracted by the sudden effect she had on me when she came into view.

The way she looks in that sapphire-blue babydoll sundress and the way her wavy blonde hair cascades over her shoulders makes it suddenly hard to think straight.

Man, I must have been blind to have never truly appreciated how stunning she is before. I am a very stupid man.

Blind and stupid.

“It’s one of my attributes—I’m fully trainable,” I mumble quietly as my mouth goes drier with each slow step she takes toward me.

“You look nice,” I tell her, raking my gaze over every inch of her.

“So do you,” she says when she comes to a stop mere inches from me. Her voice is just above a whisper, and the breathiness of it sends a shiver across my skin. I didn’t realize I’d gotten to a point where her voice alone has this effect on me, but here we are.

Her hand reaches out to smooth a wrinkle on the bottom of my shirt, and I’m suddenly desperately wishing someone—anyone—were here so I would have an excuse to lean in and kiss her. Or hug her. Or, heck, I’d settle for a squeeze of her hand.

I roll my lips together as her eyes rise to meet mine, and I zero in on the way her own breath seems to catch. Is she affected by our closeness too? Is she having as much trouble breathing as I am? The thought alone makes my heartbeat go wild.

The moment her eyes meet mine she clears her throat, zapping us both out of the moment.

“Are you ready?” she asks, backing away slowly.

“After you,” I reply, eager to get to the fake-dating portion of the night so I can finally touch her skin like I’m desperate to do. I don’t even mind that we’ll be around her insufferable dad if it means I’ll get to feel her under my fingertips.

“Oh, hold on. I forgot one thing.” She rushes back into her room and emerges a few seconds later with a bright-yellow headband atop her head. I wink my approval and follow her outside.

The drive to her parents’ house is spent in complete silence.

While I assume she might be mentally preparing herself for the upcoming interaction with her dad, I’m focusing every last bit of my own energy on not opening my mouth.

Because I know if I do, all my thoughts and feelings that are sitting right on the surface could come spilling out, and I won’t be able to take them back—which could alter our friendship forever.

I can’t risk that.

“How are you feeling?” I finally say once we come to a stop in front of her parents’ house and pause for a moment on the sidewalk.

“Resigned,” she admits with a small smile. “And a little guilty for bringing you into this.”

“Don’t worry about me,” I assure her, taking a step closer.

“I know, but I do.” Her head tilts shyly and the tip of her shoulder lifts in a shrug. “My dad can be a lot.”

“Nothing we can’t handle, remember?”

“I know, but this is it, Robbie. This dinner.” Her eyes grow serious, a subtle panic starting to simmer behind them. “This is why we’re doing this whole thing in the first place, right? So I can stand up to him. That’s a lot of pressure.”

“Hey, don’t stress.” I run my hand down the side of her arm. “It’s still early in our process, okay? Think of this as a stepping stone.”

She gives an unconvincing nod.

“Do you want to knock out some jumping jacks to get the nerves out?” I offer.

A laugh flies out of her mouth. “Not in this dress.”

“Fair enough.” I reach out my hand, holding her stare. “Shall we?”

She slips her hand into mine, and immediately it feels like a small piece of my world has shifted into place. A correction on some level. I can’t explain it…but it feels right.

Pushing aside the implications of what that means, I squeeze her hand and follow her inside the house.

“Knock, knock,” Naomi calls just as her mom rounds the corner to greet us.

“Hello, sweetheart,” she says lovingly, wrapping Naomi in a hug.

“Mrs. Tillman.” I hold my hand out, which she shakes enthusiastically.

“Robbie.” She opens her mouth to say more, but Naomi’s dad strolls in.

Her mom instinctively shrinks against the wall, her head dipping ever-so-slightly to her chin.

I imagine that’s what Naomi is used to doing too.

Admittedly, the air does get sucked out of the room with his boasting presence taking up all the space. I almost succumb to it myself.

“Robert.” He holds out a hand in greeting.

“Actually, it’s Robbie,” I correct politely.

A smirk pulls at his face, and I can feel every inch of his gaze as it scans the length of my body.

Noting the absence of an Armani suit, I’m sure.

As intimidating as he was in the dealership, he’s even more intense here now that we’re on his own turf.

I force down a shiver, refusing to be affected by him.

I have a job to do tonight—and that is to be strong for Naomi.

“Marion, get Robert a glass of wine, please,” he says. It’s only then that he releases my hand.

She doesn’t hesitate, scurrying off into the kitchen as I place a hand on Naomi’s lower back, staying close behind as she leads us into the formal dining room.

“Thank you,” I tell Marion as she hands both Naomi and me a glass of red wine. She only smiles, giving a dip of her head before retreating quietly to the chair next to her husband. A wave of pity runs through me as I slide into the seat next to Naomi.

“It smells delicious in here,” Naomi says, filling the awkward silence with something other than tension.

“Your mother made chicken parmesan with roasted garlic potatoes and spicy green beans.”

I’m guessing speaking for other people is standard for him too.

“Thanks for cooking, Mom.” Naomi directs her words to Marion, her voice strong and assertive. I know that takes effort, so I slide an arm around the back of her chair, a silent show of support.

Marion beams, smiling to herself as she starts passing platters of food.

“So, Robert, your brother is a doctor, correct?” His question hangs heavy in the air.

I immediately freeze in place, my stomach dropping with the weight of sudden tension.

Here it comes: the inevitable comparison that always happens.

Heat inundates my core, spreading out in every direction, despite how much I try to repress it.

I didn’t prepare myself for this particular topic tonight —not even a little bit.

I naively assumed we would be focusing mostly on Naomi while we are here.

“He is,” I answer curtly, abruptly bringing my arm off her chair and back to my lap. From here I can roll my hands into balls to focus my energy somewhere tangible to release some tension.

Feeling caught off guard, I fight the urge to go cold, but I’m afraid I don’t do a very good job. My muscles feel rigid, cementing me to my chair.

“Your parents must be proud.”

It’s either a wildly ironic choice of words, or he somehow knows exactly how to push my most sensitive button. My jaw tenses, and I look down, unable to focus on anything except the restless energy threatening to explode within my chest.

“Oh, Dad, I forgot to tell you,” Naomi cuts in, changing the subject. “When I saw Linda at the grocery store the other day, she absolutely raved about her new Jeep. You can add another happy customer for Tillman Motors to your list.”

Her soft voice brings me out of the haze I’m in, just enough to notice her hand when it comes across to rest on my knee. Her thumb slides across the fabric of my jeans, a soft motion that I zero in on.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” he boasts, effectively following Naomi’s redirection. “No dealership within a fifty-mile radius offers the selection we do.”

“That’s right.” Marion encourages him with a light tap on his forearm.

While he rambles on and on about how amazing his dealership is, I tune him out, focusing intently on the way her hand feels on my leg. Not to mention the way my discomfort dissipates with every soft stroke of her thumb.