“I regret that I’m frustrating you,” I finally manage. “I know we don’t see eye to eye on this.” She glances back down at the board. “Understatement of the century. Whatever. It’s fine.” I stare at her as she assesses the game, warring with myself. Should I consider this? Why would I bend my rules and agree to a plot for revenge—a plot that will routinely not only subject us to each other but require pretending to be in a relationship? Am I honestly entertaining a faux romance—a fauxmance?—with a woman with whom I’ve shared nothing but physical catastrophe and a dozen stinging verbal paper
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