My Phony Valentine (Holidays with Hart, #1)

by Courtney Walsh

Then, to his grandma, “Are you comfortable? I think you should sit in the living room.” He reaches out to help her and she smacks his hand away. “I think you should go sit in traffic.”

“You think she’s pretty?” “Yes, she’s beautif. . .” he blurts that out, and abruptly stops, caught.

It’s not the kind of smile that would alert the paparazzi, but it’s the kind of smile that a person could hold onto. The kind that could make, say, a man in a tough spot hope that things could turn around again. Like an anchor. A safe space to land.

Adulting is hard. Even at twenty-eight, I haven’t mastered it. There are moments when I don't want to be strong, or independent, or responsible. There are moments I want someone else to take the risk, or make the decision, or tell me what to do.

People don’t always let us become who we are. They try to keep us in the box of who we were.

That’s the danger of wanting to be loved—you start to see possibilities everywhere. Even where there are none.

Pretending to be dating might not be the difficult part of this whole arrangement. Not letting myself actually develop feelings for her is a bigger concern.

“We fit,” I blurt out. He looks confused for a moment. “What?” “On the couch when we fall asleep. When I hug you when you’re hurting. When you protect me from the world.” I look up at him. “We fit.” He takes my face in his hands. “We do fit.”