Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(72)

Or recovery.

Whatever the computer shop can do for it.

And then I wonder what’s taking so long, because throwing on a clean Confucius T-shirt and jeans shouldn’t be a forty-five-minute affair.

I’m about to head up the stairs when I hear them squeaking.

“There you—whoa.”

Henri—my Henri, the Henri who lives in funny pajama pants and expressive T-shirts, the Henri who covers her hair with a bandana or my Fireballs hat when it gets unruly, the Henri who lives in mismatched pajamas and doesn’t own makeup, is a fucking bombshell.

She freezes above the trick step. “Is this a cow-tipping party? Did I overdo it? Should I go change again?”

Her short hair has been tamed into submission and is an organized mass of curls without the devil horns. Her lips are painted like cherries, her eyes are smoky, and she’s in a fancy, soft purple lace tank top showing enough cleavage to catch a man’s interest—namely, my interest. She’s covered it with a classy white cardigan that’s doing nothing but make me want to see her bare arms, and her white jeans are making me itch to peel them off her hips too.

She might not fit the definition of a classic beauty, but Henri Bacon is friggin’ gorgeous to me.

Her brown eyes are wary as she inches back up a step. “Or is it because I’m wearing white after Labor Day? I know—my mother would have a fit too. But I like these jeans, and they’re the only ones that fit me, because I have those five extra launch week pounds that I’ll work on next week.”

“I—no. You look—you look amazing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m now fit to stand beside you on that Kangapoo billboard downtown.”

“Hey.” I snag her by the waist and pull her down off the stairs.

Her hands fly to my shoulders. “Gah. Warn a girl.”

“I fucked up.”

“Luca. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know the door would scare me, nor did you know I had hot chocolate in my hand, and—mmph!”

And here I am, fucking up again.

Because I’m kissing Henri.

Again.

And god help me, she’s kissing me back.

There’s only so much I can resist, and Henri thinking she’s not attractive isn’t something I can let go.

Especially when my fuck-up is that I haven’t told her she looks amazing when she’s wearing her pajamas. Or when her hair’s crazy. Or when she’s smiling so big it looks like her face can’t possibly hold all that happiness without cracking.

She doesn’t have to get dressed up to be her own brand of gorgeous, yet here I am, being the asshole who waits to tell her until she fits herself into the mold of what society says is pretty.

I turn to press her against the wall, trip over the damn philodendron that my mother insisted on putting in here for me, and we break apart, panting, while I make sure Henri doesn’t fall. “You okay?”

Her gaze meets mine, and she immediately looks away. “Yes. Yes! Perfect. We should take a selfie or something to send to Nonna, since you’re wearing my lipstick now. Super smart. Really smart. Here. We can use my phone.”

She fumbles and drops it, and I want to grab her chin and make her look at me and tell her I like her, but what happens then?

Nothing good.

She doesn’t want forever.

Hell, I don’t want forever. I want to play baseball and— And not ever hurt a woman again the way she’s put herself up to be rejected five times.

She’s not being paid to be here. She knows about Nonna’s Eye. She’s asked me to not fall in love with her.

She’s not Emily.

She wouldn’t hurt me.

But I’m terrified I’ll hurt her.

“Why did you do it?”

“Drop the hot chocolate?”

“Get engaged. Why did you let yourself get engaged to five assholes who weren’t good enough for you?”

Her cheeks go pink as she dives for her phone. “You say that like I’m the victim of five proposals.”

I press my lips together and fist my hands in my own hair, because if I don’t, I’ll either grab her and kiss her again, or start ranting about everything she deserves and what idiots her former fiancés are, and that’s not what she asked me to do.

She asked me to help her learn to not fall in love.

“There we go. Here. Smile for your Nonna. She’ll love the little lipstick touch.”

Her phone screen displays the two of us, me looking like I want to go punch a hole in the fabric of the universe, her looking like she might want to puke, and the two of us fake the most awful, unconvincing smiles I’ve ever seen.

“Now, you promised me a party.”

Only Henri could dig deep enough to find that much cheer and enthusiasm for a party that neither of us wants to go to right now.

But if my options are staying here, alone with this woman who’s maddeningly more attractive with every breath, or heading out to be surrounded by people on our first chance to celebrate making the playoffs, then I’m heading out to the party.

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

She says goodnight to Dogzilla, and we take off.

I don’t argue about climbing into her small SUV instead of the two of us squeezing into Fluffy Maple, who’s in desperate need of a tune-up, and she doesn’t argue about letting me drive.