Fearless Heart by Brighton Walsh

Author:Brighton Walsh [Walsh, Brighton]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781685180232
Publisher: Bright Publishing LLC
Published: 2023-04-08T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

QUINN

The Blueberry Fest was being held downtown, near the park, with vendor offerings ranging from pie to wine to scented body products and everything in between, all befitting the blueberry theme.

Even though it was a beautiful late July day, if I had it my way, I would’ve avoided attending this altogether. But since Ford had a booth—a dunk tank fundraiser he’d come up with for the little league team I’d had no idea he and Aiden coached—Addison had cornered me yesterday and told me I was going whether I wanted to or not. And I’d come to realize that when Addison had her mind set on something, there was no use arguing with her.

Besides, she’d had a point when she’d said Ford and I needed to keep up appearances to make everyone buy this coupling—especially when Dr. Dicknose still refused to entertain any discussion of my purchasing the clinic. Little did she know, this coupling was more real than I’d ever intended, and I didn’t know what to do about that. It had been plaguing me since the night Ford and I had slept together—both literally and figuratively—and I’d fallen asleep with him curled around me, my mind and emotions a jumbled mess.

So…I’d avoided. Him, yes. But more specifically, sex.

It had been easy at first… I’d been sore—like, holy shit, had my hymen actually grown back and he just devirginized me again? sore—so that was a plausible excuse to skip another round with Ford and his magic peen. Then he’d had a twenty-four-hour shift at the firehouse—one that had, surprisingly, kept him busy around the clock with various calls and emergencies, which meant he’d crashed as soon as he’d gotten home. After that, our schedules hadn’t synced up for a few days, so that was an unplanned but welcome reprieve.

Then I’d had to get creative.

First, I’d told him I was too tired to do anything but crash after rearranging the furniture in the cottage. Then I said I thought I might be allergic to his shampoo, so he shouldn’t get too close to me. Then I’d blamed it on a stubbed toe.

The excuses were weak at best, and the worst part was, he saw right through them. Immediately.

Instead of pushing, he allowed me my space. But anytime I was around him, I could feel his eyes on me, heavy and weighted, brushing over my skin like a caress, and I hated how much I liked it. How much I’d come to crave it in such a short period of time.

In public, he played the doting husband, bringing me lunch at the clinic or carrying my bags for me when Addison had forced us together for errands. And he somehow always knew when I had an exceptionally challenging day and needed an emotional support coffee, delivering it to me without my having to say a word.

When he did those things, I was confused all over again, wondering if he was doing this because he wanted to or because it was expected of him as my fake husband.

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