Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(17)

My hands shake while I shove the keys into the ignition, and I’m losing precious seconds.

Finally—finally—I get the key inserted and crank it.

Nothing happens.

I press the brake and crank it again.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Fuuuuuuuck.

I crank the wheel, because sometimes it’ll lock up in the wrong position and keep me from starting the car, but it goes smoothly this way and that, and I still can’t start my car.

Henri leans in the window. “Luca?”

“I’ll get fined if I’m late.” Technically true. Except today, late would be like, three in the afternoon, and it’s currently ten AM. “Stand back. Gotta go.”

“Do you want to, erm, put on clothes first?”

I look down at my bare legs and my boxer briefs, then squint harder at my junk.

It’s shrinking, isn’t it?

Nonna Eyed me. She didn’t even wait for the ziti to get done.

A cold flush makes goosebumps break out all over my chest.

Henri leans in closer, her crazy-ass curly hair getting all up in my face as she peers at the steering wheel. “And your car won’t start?”

I could lie. Say it does this all the time. That I have to talk sweetly to her, except I don’t sweet-talk my car. That’s ridiculous.

I could also pull up an app on my phone and have a ride here in five minutes.

Henri pulls back, pats my hand on the steering wheel, and smiles brightly at me. “I’ll go get you some clothes, and then I can give you a lift to the park. You could try an app-ride thing, but I think they have rules against nudity. Or that might depend on your driver. Back in a sec, and if you get your car running before then, no harm, no foul.”

She turns and jogs back to the house, calls something to Nonna, and I sit there and stare at the windows of my personal sanctuary.

I have officially lost all control of my life.





8





Henri



Luca doesn’t say much while I run him to Duggan Field—technically, he drives, because he says he knows the way—and I don’t press him to communicate, because look at us not talking!

This is great.

It’s like another example of all the reasons relationships aren’t something I need in my life. They’re awkward, where you think you know what the other person is thinking—usually, that they’re madly in love with me as much as I’m madly in love with them—but you really don’t.

Because surely Luca isn’t thinking I’m a pain in the ass, even though I probably would be if I were him, even though I feel like that’s what he’s thinking.

And if he is, he’s wrong.

I’m going to be the best fake girlfriend ever.

Good thing I have so much experience being a real girlfriend.

He pulls up to the special authorized personnel only entrance at the ballpark, and he shoots me a look for the first time in the twenty or so minutes since we left his house. “What are you doing today?”

“Writing.” At least, that’s what I hope I’m doing. It’s been difficult to get in the mood the last month.

His green eyes scan me, landing on my hair, which I probably should’ve covered with a hat or a bandana, but then, he tried to drive here naked, so he can’t talk.

“Where?” he asks.

“At your house.”

Wow. His entire body just twitched.

I rub my hands down my thighs, because I can’t sit still. “Or at a coffee shop. Because it has running water. Do you have a good local coffee shop? I like to support local places. Not that chain places aren’t local—local people work there, right? But there’s something magical about finding a local coffee shop where there’s an awesome staff that knows your name and they have air conditioning and they’ll play seventies disco music because they know your vampire family loves it.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and does the kind of deep breathing that my grandma tried to teach me after my third failed wedding.

I should probably shut up, but I can’t. It’s a thing. “Is this me, or is this because of your nonna?”

“Yes.”

“Can you explain the significance of the ziti to me?”

“No.”

“I can run to the store for the ingredients for—”

“No. And can you skip the part where you go back to my house before you find a coffee shop?”

“My computer’s at your house. But don’t worry. Grandparents love me. So do parents. I’m like, the parent whisperer. I still talk to all of my exes’ parents. And grandparents. And sometimes their cousins or aunts too. We trade Christmas cards. My second ex’s sister even asked me to be godmother to her baby. It was their sixth baby, and they were running out of options, but still. They asked, and I accepted. Want to see pictures?”

“No.”

“Right. You have a fake emergency meeting to get to. But you should look at the pictures anyway, because little details like this are what will make our fake relationship convincing. And by the way, I’m only okay with lying about that because I think it’s overbearing and underhanded of grandparents to use curses and threats of dying or disinheritance to make you marry someone you don’t love. I do believe in love. I just need to learn how to not fall in it.”