Real Fake Love (Copper Valley Fireballs #2)(9)

“I liked your hat, but I meant the time…before that.”

He closes the distance between us with three casual steps. “Nope.”

And I go momentarily speechless as a waft of something delicious teases my nose.

But only momentarily. A quick recovery is a gift. Or possibly a defense mechanism. “The time we were together…in that town…with that big monument…and the event thing…”

No answer.

“The event thing that didn’t—”

“I’m trying to block it from my memory.”

“Oh. Oh! Thank you. That’s very kind of you. Sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“That I wouldn’t want to remember your ruined wedding, that you like to redecorate people with dessert, and that your ex-fiancé is the first man that my mother’s dated in three years and I might have to start calling him Stepdad?”

I wince.

My heart also weeps because yeah, still not over seeing Jerry lock lips with a woman who could’ve been my mother, and hearing that it might actually be going somewhere is salt in the wound.

“So, no, Henri, I don’t remember the last time we were together. At least, I won’t, once I get inside and pour myself a large enough vodka tonic. Care for one?”

Once again, I’m momentarily speechless. “Um, I’m kinda allergic—”

I cut myself off when one of his brows rises infinitesimally, and then I gasp. Of course he knows I’m allergic. We had an entire conversation about it. “Are you trying to send me to the hospital?”

“No, but I am trying to get into my house. Alone. Preferably without the sad panda thoughts I’d finally managed to shake before you showed up today.”

“Oh. That was a hint.”

“It was.”

“I’m bad with the subtle.”

He swipes a hand over his mouth and looks up at the sky, and I’m certain he’s not stifling a smile.

Probably the exact opposite.

Time to forge ahead. “I’m here because I need your help.”

“And now I pay the price for my sins,” he mutters.

I’d ask what his sins are, but my google searches were very thorough.

Normally, he really would be the last person on earth I’d turn to for help.

“I don’t want money or anything like that. And I’d rather no one know I’m here, so I’m not after your fame either, though I wouldn’t mind some tips on how to get my hair as good as yours always is. I’ve tried Kangapoo before, and—wait. Sorry. Off-topic. I need you to teach me how to not fall in love.”

His entire body goes still, except for his eyes, which slowly settle on me in the dark.

And oh no.

It’s the tingle.

It’s the tingle over my skin that precedes the quiver in my breasts that sends a jolt of sensation rocketing to my lady bits, which will inevitably short-circuit my brain and make me think I’m falling in love with Luca Rossi.

I. Will. Not. Fall. In. Love. With. Luca. Rossi.

The eye contact is a lie. It’s not love. And Luca Rossi doesn’t do love.

I know, because he told me, and then I did my research and confirmed that he’s exactly the man for the job.

“You want me to what?” His words are slow and deliberate, like he’s grounding himself back in reality after taking a trip on the crazy train.

I might’ve heard that tone a time or two before.

But I forge ahead, because I don’t have a back-up plan. “You don’t believe in love.”

Again, no answer.

I’m going to have to do this the hard way. “After the last time we saw—erm, didn’t see each other, I went on my honey—post-traumatic event trip solo, and while I was there in the Canadian Rockies, I met this guy, and I felt this—this instant connection to him. He was a lumberjack type, super funny, super smart, super handsome, super into me, and I realized I was falling for him. When I knew nothing about him other than that he looked great in plaid and he knew how to trim his beard and he could tell a thousand different jokes about pickles, and then I was like, Henrietta Bacon, you know better. You. Know. Better. And I realized I need help. I need to stop falling in love, because if I hadn’t hopped the first flight out of Canada after that and forced myself into isolation for a week or two, I’d probably be planning wedding number six right now, and that’s insane. So I asked myself, who do I know who can help me not fall in love?”

“Maybe a therapist?”

“No good. Third fiancé. I can’t go back to therapy.”

“Christ on a meatball…”

“Which means… It’s you. You won’t fall in love with me. You don’t even believe in love. You’ve said so yourself. I read about your wedding—well, I mean about your not-wedding. And also some of those articles you were quoted in a few years ago. And even though there aren’t any more recent articles, I’m guessing it’s less because you changed your mind and more because someone told you to shut up if you want to keep getting paid to do shampoo commercials. So I want you to teach me how to not fall in love with anyone else too.”

Wow.

It’s been a few years since someone has stood there staring at me with their jaw hanging open.