Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(32)

And that’s why I hate love. It’s this idealized fantasy of perfection that makes people fuck up more than they get right.

“Love itself isn’t wrong.” I tuck my hands under my head and stare up at the soft darkness. “But you need to quit loving people who don’t love you back.”

“What if no one ever loves me back?” she whispers.

My heart twists. Distant memories from childhood that I never wanted to see again poke their heads out of the dirt, and I have to swallow down the unexpected grit clogging my throat to do the one thing she’s asked in return for playing my girlfriend.

She wants my help in learning how to not fall in love.

And it suddenly feels so wrong.

She’s clearly more cut out for optimism than anyone I’ve ever been related to. Teaching her how to not fall in love feels like teaching a rainbow how to not sparkle.

An unpredictable, chaotic, klutzy rainbow, but still a rainbow.

Watching her head straight into meeting my teammates in her pajamas shook something unfamiliar loose inside of me, and it has me off-kilter and thinking weird thoughts.

I roll onto my side to face her. “Fuck ’em. Love yourself, and forget anyone who doesn’t want to recognize and cherish what makes you special.”

Christ on parmesan. This conversation needs to end.

Her family are a bunch of dicks. Her exes are a bunch of dicks. And her self-esteem is a dick too if it’s telling her that she’s not lovable.

Of course she’s lovable. Probably to a normal person with healthy attitudes about love and commitment. One who likes all the optimism that she spews and who can handle her energy levels and who doesn’t think it’s odd that she dresses her cat in costumes.

One who’ll hear her confessing all this stuff and kiss her to shut her up, because a woman feeling down deserves to be kissed.

Needs to be kissed.

To be reassured that she doesn’t have to compete to impress a bunch of dicks, because she’s perfect the way she is, and whoever kisses her will appreciate her soft lips and her hot mouth and the enthusiasm that she’d put into kissing the fuck out of them back, and why the hell am I thinking about kissing Henri?

Holy shit.

I am.

I’m thinking about kissing Henri.

Is she a witch?

Or is it that she’s blindsided me with this unapologetic drive to get what she wants, when what she wants is a little crazy-pants?

“Mackenzie’s read your books,” I blurt.

She seems completely oblivious to my internal freaking out, though, as she mutters, “Wild, huh?”

Breathe, Rossi. Breathe. Think about ice cream. And deep-sea fishing. And hitting a home run. And petting dogs at the shelter.

Yeah. That’s helping with the freaking out.

I’m not in danger of popping a boner, because Nonna broke my junk, so I’m also not bothering with the whole picture your mother naked thing.

Or possibly knowing that my mother’s sleeping naked in my room right now has already done everything my dick needs it to do.

It’s not that I don’t like my mother. It’s more that I don’t want to think of any of my relatives naked.

Ever.

I blow out another slow breath and sneak a fast glance at Henri again. “You make a living off your books?”

There’s a beat of silence before she answers, and I get the feeling I’m on the receiving end of the look I used to give people when they’d ask if you could make a living playing baseball.

You have to be the best of the best, but I knew I would be the very best of the best.

I’m not—see also, I’ve been traded by half the teams in the league, or so it feels, and I’ve never once made it to the all-star game—but I’m still damn good if I’m playing in the pros.

“I do fine, yes,” she finally says.

“My cousin Alonzo tried self-publishing while he was recovering from being Eyed. Ended up needing therapy and blood pressure medication. Said it’s not as easy as it looks.”

“Recovering from being Eyed?”

“No, writing and publishing.”

“Yes, I got that part. Live it, thanks. I know it’s not as easy as it looks. What I’m curious about is, what kind of recovery did he need after being Eyed?”

Hell. If I explain this to her, it’ll probably end up in a book. Either that, or she’ll double-down on efforts to convince Nonna we’re real, and we’ll probably end up engaged.

“Look at that. Eleven-thirty. Lights out time.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me. I’ll make up my own version, and it’ll probably be better anyway.”

She stretches out next to me, and I study the outline of her profile. She’s on her back with her face tilted to the sky, where there’s not a star in sight because of all the ambient light from the city. It’s a big blanket of dark gray.

Feels wrong to go to sleep with Henri cranky.

“Probably would,” I agree softly. “Would yours involve a flaming asteroid made of toilets?”

She sniffs. “Amateur.”

Would you look at that?

I’m actually cracking up.

And not thinking about kissing her.

We’re two adults in a crappy situation making the most of it.

“I’ll get my mother a hotel room and change the locks on the house tomorrow,” I tell her.