Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(81)

I’m up early the next morning, because I can’t sleep with all the plans taking shape in my head to figure out how to keep Henri safe from the world and herself while not offering her things I can’t actually give her.

A nebulous plan is taking shape, and the harder I think about it, the more I wonder if it might actually work.

Why couldn’t it work?

It’s working today. It worked yesterday. It can work tomorrow.

We’ll just take the timeline off our arrangement, and I’ll keep protecting Henri from any other assholes out there, and she’ll keep living in my house, which I will immediately get to work on finishing so it’s livable long-term, and we’ll just fall into both of us being happy and safe.

If she goes for it.

That’s the part I’m not certain about.

However, I know Henri loved the French toast from this local joint in a strip mall not far from the computer repair shop where I drop her laptop off as soon as they’re open, so I pick up an order.

Okay, fine.

I take home seven orders of French toast, because she mentioned once that she likes to reheat them in a skillet, and I want her to have her favorite French toast every day.

I might also charm the hostess into talking the chef out of his magic ingredient.

Not because anything I can make will be that good, even with the magic ingredient, but because it’s the thought that counts.

Henri’s the type of woman to appreciate the thought.

She’s sitting up in bed when I poke my head into the guest room, rubbing her hair, which is curling in all directions and making her utterly adorable. Dogzilla is nestled between her legs, dressed like a furry cowgirl already, and she opens a single eye to give me the don’t make my human unhappy or I will shred your charging cords in the middle of the night look.

I’d be concerned, except Henri’s frowning at her phone as she thumbs over the screen, and that takes priority over worrying that her cat is secretly plotting to ruin my chargers.

Henri’s eyes are puffy over the blotchy rash still staining her cheeks, and I don’t know if she’s been crying or if this is a normal post-allergic-reaction look, but she looks up, sees me, and immediately shoves the phone under the covers.

Caught.

I start to grin. “Somebody’s acting guilty.”

Her face floods with more pink, and god, I could wake up to that every day for the rest of my life.

It should be a terrifying thought, except this is Henri.

She’s the last person on earth who would ever pull the bullshit that I watched man after man pull on my mother until my early teenage years, who would abandon her family when it got too hard, or who would date me because someone paid her to.

The bigger issue will be convincing her that she can count on me.

Good thing I have a week or two to figure out the best way to suggest she stay when the season’s over.

Her nose wrinkles. “Family.”

That puts me on alert like nothing else can. “Which family?”

She mumbles something, and I narrow my eyes at her. “Your sister?”

More mumbles.

And now I’m getting irritated. “Henrietta, I forbid you to give your sister writing advice unless you’re giving her bad advice.”

Swear to god, the cat snickers.

But my bigger concern should be Henri’s narrowing eyes. “You forbid me?”

“Yep.”

Here it comes. She’s settling in for the laser beam eyes and the harping and the secret messages to her cat to hock up a hairball in my cleats.

But as soon as she gets her eyes good and narrowed, she sighs and drops back onto the pillow, scratching idly at her face. “You’re right. I shouldn’t give her advice. Because I’m telling her that everyone loves a straight-laced hero who likes to eat oatmeal for breakfast every day, occasionally forgets to use his blinker, and spends hours meditating by himself.”

“That sounds…”

“Boring and unappealing?”

“I was going to say ballsy and sexy of you.” I shouldn’t be smiling bigger, but damn if Henri being underhanded isn’t making my cock ask if she can play games with us too.

She pulls the phone out from under the covers, pausing to scratch her arms. “I need to apologize.”

“You need to come eat so you can take your medicine.”

“Are you taking care of me?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

“Henri, this is what friends do for each other. C’mon. Breakfast and Benadryl. Then we can discuss if you’re putting on clothes.”

She peers at me for a long moment, and I swear I can hear the questions in her head. Are we friends? Are we something more? Am I still leaving when the season is over? Are you going to hurt me?

This is what her exes have done to her.

They’ve taken Happy Henri and turned her into a mass of insecurities.

I don’t like it.

And no, I didn’t know her then, but you can’t tell me that the woman who showed up on my doorstep asking me to help her learn to not fall in love after five failed engagements hadn’t hit a breaking point.

I also know that it’s my fault she thinks I wouldn’t want to do this for her. Because I’ve screwed up too.

I’ll do better though. I will.