Chapter 17 #2
I can barely breathe. No one has ever defended me like this—not only defended, but seen my worst personality trait and reframed it as a strength. The way he's looking at me now makes me wonder if he actually believes what he's saying, or if he's just that good at this game we're playing.
Ethan shifts uncomfortably in his chair, his jaw working like he's chewing on a rebuttal but can't quite spit it out. Olivia's perfect smile has gone brittle at the edges, her eyes darting between Bash and me with a calculation I don't like.
"Well," Mom says brightly, clapping her hands together with forced cheerfulness, "who's ready for dessert? I had the chocolate cake everyone loves from Aspen Crumb & Co. delivered."
As everyone gratefully latches onto the subject change, the tension in the room dissipating like fog, Bash's other hand finds mine under the table again.
He lifts it to his mouth for a soft kiss, his lips warm against my knuckles, I stare at the movement, feeling the gentle press of his lips against my skin like a brand.
When I look up at him, there's something in his eyes I can't quite name—something soft and unguarded that makes me wonder if maybe not all of this is an act.
What would it be like if this were real? If he actually wanted me the way he's pretending to. The thought sends a dangerous ripple through my chest.
I am so fucked.
After dessert, we all say our goodbyes. Mom and dad head to bed and Emily disappears with her phone. Bash and I volunteered to clean up, and now we're alone in the kitchen, me washing dishes while he dries.
"You didn't have to do that, you know," I say, passing him a dripping plate.
"Do what? Help with dishes? My mother would kill me if I didn't."
I roll my eyes, but can't help smiling. "No. Stand up for me like that… with Olivia and Ethan."
He takes the plate, his fingers brushing mine. "Yes, I did."
"It's just—" I scrub a stubborn bit of chocolate from a fork. "We're not actually dating. You don't have to get into real arguments with my ex."
Bash sets down the dish towel, turning to face me. "Charlie, fake relationship or not, I'm not going to sit there while someone takes cheap shots at you. Especially not when they're dead wrong."
Something about his intensity makes me need to break the tension.
I turn back to the sink, plunging my hands into the soapy water to hide the ridiculous flush creeping up my neck.
"Well... thank you. Just know you're going above and beyond the fake boyfriend contract requirements."
Bash picks up the towel again, his shoulder brushing mine as he reaches for another plate. "Is there a contract? I don't recall signing anything. Maybe we should draw one up—define the terms."
"Very funny." I flick some suds at him, which he dodges with annoying grace.
"I'm serious. Let's see..." He leans against the counter, counting off on his fingers. "Handholding, permitted. Casual touches, encouraged for authenticity. Kissing..." He pauses, eyes finding mine. "Subject to mutual agreement on a case-by-case basis."
My heart does a stupid little flip. "Defending my honor against passive-aggressive barbs from my ex's fiancée?"
"Non-negotiable term." His voice drops lower. "That one's not up for debate, Shortcake."
I hand him another glass.
"So... the 'beginners never fall' thing. Is that actually a snowboarding saying?"
His serious expression cracks, and he laughs. "No. I made that up on the spot."
"You made that up?" I splash him with soapy water. "I thought it was some profound snowboarder wisdom!"
"The sentiment is true, though." He grabs the dish towel to shield himself from my water attack. "The best riders are the ones who are willing to eat snow a thousand times to get a trick right. The ones too afraid to fall never get past the basics."
I hand him another plate, our fingers touching again. "Did you fall a lot? Before you got good?"
"Charlie, I once knocked myself unconscious trying a Quad Cork 1800 at Breckenridge. Woke up with my coach standing over me asking how many fingers he was holding up." He grins at the memory. "I nailed it the next day, though."
"That's... mildly terrifying."
"I'll be gentler with you tomorrow. Promise." He winks, and I feel heat climb my neck. "Beginner slopes only."
I turn back to the dishes. "So what about our sleeping arrangement?" I ask, immediately regretting the words.
No, I mean— “I dry my hands thoroughly on a dish towel, trying to occupy myself with this mundane task, rather than look at him. “If you want the bed, I can take the couch in the room. It’s actually pretty comfortable.
“Charlie.” He steps closer, and suddenly the kitchen feels very, very small. Like all the oxygen has been sucked out and replaced with only the subtle scent of his cologne, small. “I’m not kicking you out of your bed. That’s not how this works.”
My heart hammers against my ribs as I finally lift my eyes and meet his gaze.
“Fine we can share,” I blurt out, then quickly add, “It’s a king-size bed. Plenty of room for boundaries.” I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear, hoping he can’t see how my fingers are trembling slightly. “We can build that pillow wall down the middle like we talked about earlier.”
The thought of sharing a bed with him—even platonically—sends a rush of warmth straight through me that I am achingly trying to ignore. Images from our night together flash unbidden through my mind: his hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress...
His eyes darken slightly. "You sure about that?"
"We're adults. I think we can manage to sleep in the same bed without... you know."
"Without what?" The corner of his mouth lifts in that infuriating half-smile.
"You know exactly what I mean."
He nods slowly. "I promise to be a perfect gentleman."
"Good," I say, stepping back to create some much-needed space between us. "Because this is just pretend, remember?"
"Right." He's still looking at me with an intensity that makes me feel like I'm standing too close to a fire. "Just pretend."
Why does that word suddenly feel like the biggest lie I've ever told?
Back in our room we take turns in the bathroom, the domestic routine feeling strangely intimate despite having known each other for such a short time.
When I emerge in my sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt, I see that Bash is already in bed, scrolling through his phone.
He's wearing a plain white t-shirt that does nothing to hide the definition of his shoulders and arms. The fabric stretches across his chest in a way that makes me quickly avert my eyes, pretending I wasn't just staring.
I slip under the covers on my side, hyperaware of his presence even with the considerable space between us. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and I can smell his cologne. I adjust my pillow three times, trying to look casual while feeling anything but.
"Good night, Shortcake," he says, turning off the lamp.
In the darkness, I stare at the wall, listening to his breathing and feel him getting comfortable.
The sheets rustle as he shifts, and I'm frozen in place, afraid to move and somehow breach the invisible boundary between us.
The digital clock on the nightstand casts a faint blue glow across the room, just enough to make out the shadows.
"Bash?" I say after a moment, surprising myself with my own voice breaking the silence.
"Hmm?" His response is a sleepy rumble.
"Thanks again. For what you said at dinner." My words hang in the air, vulnerable in a way I don't usually allow.
There's a pause, and I can feel him turn toward me. The mattress shifts again, and though I can't see his face clearly in the darkness, I can feel his eyes on me.
"Anytime, Shortcake," he replies softly. Something in his tone makes my chest tighten. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow you're going to learn how to fly."
I close my eyes, trying to ignore the tension that can be cut with a knife.
The air between us feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks.
This is just pretend, I remind myself. Don't forget that.
He's playing a role, and so am I. The warmth in his voice, the way his fingers brushed against mine at dinner—it's all part of the act. A very convincing act.
But for the first time in a long time, I'm not thinking about what anyone else thinks.
Not Ethan, not my family, not my colleagues.
I'm thinking about tomorrow, about learning something new, about what it might feel like to let myself fall—and trust that someone might be there to catch me.
The thought is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating, like standing at the edge of a cliff and feeling the wind on your face.
I pull the blanket up to my chin and will my breathing to slow, aware that sleep might not come easily with him just inches away.