No wonder I’d seen You Wish so many times.
I’d seen so many downsides to coming here. I’d worried about the boredom of being on duty with nothing to do. I’d worried about the difficulty of trying to do my job while pretending not to—and what that might mean for my performance. I’d worried that I might be an unconvincing actor.
It just hadn’t occurred to me to worry about Jack.
In those short minutes right after he walked in, though, as he worked to establish us as a genuine, loving couple in front of his folks … that’s exactly what it felt like we were.
I bought it, too, is what I’m saying.
I felt like he was glad to see me. I felt like he was savoring being near me. I felt like he liked me.
He seemed exactly, convincingly, heartbreakingly like a man in love.
Uh oh.
How would I make it four weeks without getting traumatically confused? I couldn’t even make it four minutes.
Just then, Hank showed up in the kitchen, the screen door slapping behind him. Instead of sitting at the table, he leaned against the counter and glared at the lovey-doveyness.
That was helpful. I could focus on that.
Jack’s mom didn’t even notice Hank. She leaned toward us and said, “Tell us about how you two met.”
We’d planned for this.
Jack eyed Hank for a second before giving his mom his full attention. Then, he poured a cup of coffee from the carafe and said, in a friendly voice, “She’s a photographer. She came to my place in the mountains to shoot our infamous albino moose.”
I gave Jack a look. The albino moose ad-lib was pushing it.
Hank wasn’t buying it, either. He crossed his arms over his chest.
“You have an albino moose?” Doc asked.
Jack nodded. “Very elusive.” He gestured at me. “She was trying do a photo essay on it, but she never could find it.”
“Too bad,” Connie said.
“But I helped her look for a long time,” Jack said then, giving his mom a wink.
“You were kind to help her out,” Doc said.
“It wasn’t kindness,” Jack said. “It was pure selfishness.”
Hank snorted a laugh.
Jack ignored it. “Because it was love at first sight.”
Jack turned then and gave me the dreamiest, most lovestruck look I’d ever seen. Then he tucked a wisp of hair behind my ear. “I just wanted any excuse to be around her.” Then he leaned back and put his hands behind his head, like he was reminiscing. “I saw that feisty, stumpy little lady climb out of her Land Rover with five hundred cameras, and I just knew.”
I frowned. “Did you just call me ‘stumpy’？”
“In a good way, Stumps,” Jack said.
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“In a lovable way,” Jack insisted. “In an adorable, irresistible, how-can-I-get-this-little-lady-trapped-in-my-mountain-cabin way.” Then he turned to his parents, grabbed me in a headlock that messed up my already messy bun, and said, “Look how cute she is.”
“I am not stumpy,” I said helplessly.
But Jack’s mother was totally on board. She leaned forward. “What do you like best about her?”
Jack released me and let me sit back. “I like these little wispy things that never quite make it into her bun. And how she looks like a wet cat when you make her mad. And actually”—he said, like this was just occurring to him—“I like how she gets mad. She gets mad a lot.”
“You like how she gets mad?” Doc Stapleton asked, like his son might have a few screws loose.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “People don’t really get mad at you when you’re famous. At first, it’s great—but after a while it starts to feel like you’re living on a planet with no gravity.” He thought about that for a second. Then he turned back to me. “But not Stumps! One sock on the floor, and I get the mad cat face. I love it.”
I glared at him from under my messed-up hair.
He pointed at my face with admiration. “There it is right now.”
Connie was loving this. She turned to me. “And what do you like best about Jack?”
I hadn’t prepared for this question. But an answer just popped right into my head. “I like that he thanks me all the time. For all kinds of things. Things I would never have expected anyone to thank me for.”
I glanced at Jack, and I could tell he knew that I’d said something true.
He studied me for a second, seeming to fall out of character. Then he picked up a wadded paper towel off the table and threw it at the kitchen trash can like he was making a free throw—and missed.