Page 43 of That Fake Feeling

Itcould not be less okay that my body is reacting to him like this.

Connorreaches for a croissant. “Thesemight make the whole thing worthwhile.I’mstarving.”

“No, no, no.”Thephotographer’s assistant waves his hands across his face and bounces up and down. “Don’tbite those.”

“What?”Connorsays as he picks one up and sniffs it. “Oh, ha.They’refake.Look.”

Heraps it against my forehead.

“Ow!”Ipush him away and rub the spot where he just assaulted me with a fake pastry.Hemight be impossible to figure out, but he’s pretty funny.

“Nothelpful, people,” the photographer calls out as he stops snapping and looks down to check his camera, presumably flicking through the pictures he’s taken. “Actually, the part where you shoved him,Rose, that came out really well.Lovelynatural laughs.Let’scall breakfast done and move on.”

Oh.Myheart shrinks a little.Isit over?Andjust asIwas starting to almost enjoy it.

“Onelast thing.”Thephotographer looks up from his camera. “There’ssome gorgeous light coming through that window.Poursome of that brown liquid into the mugs and have a little chat while sipping coffee and looking at the view.Pretendingto point things out to each other would be good too.”

Ipick up theFrenchpress.Yup, he’s right about “brown liquid.”It’sstone cold and doesn’t have even a hint of coffee aroma.Asidefrom the fruit, this whole thing is as fake as my relationship withConnor.

Ipass a mug of not-coffee toConnor.

“Threeminutes to get these shots, people,” the photographer tells the room. “Threeminutes.”

Connorleans into me, his breath warm and pineapple-y against my cheek.

“Atleast it means that in three minutes it’ll all be over,” he whispers, then slides out of bed and moves toward the window.

Hisbare back is spectacular and crying out to be stroked from the top of his firm shoulders to where his lower spine curves and dips into the polka dot pants.

Irest my hand on the warm sheets beside me.Icould get out on my side and walk around to the window, butI’mdrawn to place my body exactly where his has been, if only for half a second.

Ishuffle my butt over to where his butt just was and soak in his remaining heat.It’sallIcan do to stop myself from leaning back and sniffing the pillow.

Connorturns and catches me.Myface burns at the thought he might realize whatI’mdoing, even though he can’t possibly tell.

“Comeon, love pumpkin, these good people are in a hurry.Don’tworry, though.”Henods at the bed. “Wecan hop right back in once they’re gone.ThoseshortPJsare hotter thanIfirst thought.”

Hesays it loudly for everyone to hear but he winks at me privately, on the side of his face no one else can see.Anothercompletely unnecessary flirtation.

“Ina school-teachery kind of way,” he adds in a low voice that makes me wonder if that’s how he sounds when he’s just woken up.

“Twoand a half minutes,” the photographer declares.

Icup my mug of cold brown something in both hands, slide out from between the sheets and stand as close toConnor’sside asIcan without touching him.

“Oh, wow.”Idon’t even need to pretend to be pointing at something out the window because there’s an actual thing to point at. “Lookat that woman feeding the squirrels.They’reall lined up along the fence, like they’ve been waiting for her.”

“Great, great.”Thephotographer clicks away around us.

“That’sa regular thing,”Connorsays. “She’sbeen going out there at the same time every day during squirrel season since long beforeIlived here.”

Ilean away from him soIcan look up at his face. “Squirrelseason?”

Helooks down, smiles, and nudges me playfully.

“Lovethat.Loveit,” says the photographer.

Connorignores him. “Youknow, when they’re out and about.Andnot sleeping.”