Fakers (Licking Thicket 1)

I hated his adorable face.

“Mpfh,” I said, stepping around him and heading to the garage to retrieve my boxes. “Figures.”

We loaded up the truck in silence, but when we finally began to bump down the Iveys’ long driveway, Brooks spoke up.

“Listen, I owe you an apology. I should have never kissed you like that last night. You’re, um, here with Ava, and I shouldn’t have done anything to put your relationship in jeopardy, much less betrayed her myself by disrespecting her that way.”

Even though he was right to feel bad for what we’d done behind Ava’s back, it still stung to hear him regret that incredible kiss.

I sighed. “I’m sorry too. Paul deserves better than that.”

Brooks glanced over at me for a beat before both of us burst out laughing. Paul was no more dating Brooks Johnson than I was dating Ava Ivey.

“What gave it away?” Brooks asked.

“I said something to him about poppers, and he told me they sell the best ones at Party City.”

Brooks laughed even harder. “Tell me you’re lying.”

“I’m lying,” I admitted with a grin. “But I did make a comment at the barbecue the other night that your brother was a hot daddy, and Paul quickly corrected me. Said Dunn didn’t have kids yet.”

Brooks groaned through his laughter. “Don’t call my brother a hot daddy. That’s disgusting.”

“How can Paul not know what a hot daddy is? Aren’t there daddies in the het world?”

He shrugged. “He does, but his vanilla, picket-fence world is more likely to be filled with nice girls and good girls.”

“Daddies like good girls,” I teased. “Maybe Paul would make a good daddy one day.”

Brooks shuddered. “Can we not?”

“You don’t want to imagine your boyfriend as a hot daddy?” I batted my eyelashes at him. “Maybe he wields that inhaler like—”

Brooks reached over and put his hand over my mouth. “Shut it. That’s my coworker you’re talking about. I have to be able to look at him across the conference table with our clients without picturing him in bed.”

“How the hell did you convince that straight boy to go gay for you?” I truly wanted to know.

He sighed. “It’s a long story, but basically we have a work project that has to get done, and he knew I didn’t want to show up back here single. The whole town thinks this ‘gay thing’ is a phase, and I’m sick and tired of it. I knew if I didn’t bring home a boyfriend, my family would do their best to get Ava and me back together.”

“Your family seems to have taken it in stride, though,” I said lightly, looking out the window at a young father teaching his daughter to ride a bike in their driveway.

“Yeah. Actually, my mom’s afraid I’m going to break poor Paul’s heart.”

I looked back at him. “How so?”

Brooks flicked on the turn signal before heading into an empty parking spot across the street from the town square. “She’s convinced I threw the Lope on purpose. For Ava.”

“Well, you did.”

After putting the truck in park, Brooks turned to lock eyes with me. “No I didn’t,” he said softly. Before I could open my mouth to ask him what he’d meant—if what he was implying was true—there was a loud knock on the window behind me.

I jumped in my seat, nearly strangling myself with the seat belt. “What the fuck?”

“It’s my brother,” Brooks murmured.

I turned to see Dunn’s big smile shining from under a John Deer ball cap. He waved at us like a clown while Brooks lowered the window.

“Hi, Daddy,” I said breathlessly, patting my chest like I was having palpitations. Brooks made a growling sound and rolled the window right back up. The surprised look on Dunn’s face was priceless.

“No,” Brooks said to me.

“But—”

“No. If you care about me at all, you will refrain from implying my brother has a sex bone in his body.”

“Mmm, Dunn’s sex bone…”

Brooks slammed out of the truck while I cackled. He was so fun to rile up. I scrambled out of the truck and made a big deal of hugging Dunn hello while he was still frozen in shock.

“Hey, bro,” I said. “You come to help us set up?”

“Um, no? I’m here to tell you where to go? My mom made me get here early to save you a good spot. She seemed to think it was important, which makes no sense since Mr. Ivey said you sell stuff from a junkyard.”

That stopped me in my tracks. I ignored the junkyard jab for a minute. Why in the world would Cindy Ann Johnson care about a stranger from California getting a prime spot in the Thicket vendor fair?

“While technically it’s stuff from the junkyard, it’s actually considered found-object art or mixed-media art,” I said, sounding way snootier than I intended. “I take junk and turn it into art.”