8. CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

“Sorry for acting this strange, I can’t control myself”

FU In My Head – Cloudy June

Nathalie

“ N o! Don’t look in there!” Deon scrambles to block my view, but his attempt is futile. I’ve seen beyond the threshold. His arms fly up to the sides of the door frame, chest heaving.

“I can explain,” he says shakily. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“It looks like you have a lair. ”

I jerk to the left, and he mimics the movement. I repeat the motion, and he slides to block me. Rookie. I launch my body in the opposite direction and wiggle beneath his outstretched arm, right into the room beyond.

Sweet, sweet victory.

I knew my training in evading Santi would come in handy. He may be younger, but he has four inches on me and a soul-deep love of gifting unsuspecting victims (Gracie and I) with wet willies, one of the most disgusting things to have ever been invented.

I throw my arms up in celebration when Deon’s massive frame collides with mine, and I careen toward the hardwood floor.

I land with a hard oomph as all the air is knocked out of my lungs. A split second later, Deon lands directly on top of me with a thud and the air I had inhaled whooshes out.

Shit, he’s heavy.

“Agh!” Deon screams and the sound is so startling I scream in response.

His limbs flail, only pushing me further into the hardwood floors. Carved muscles press against my chest and lower thighs, and I am painfully aware his pelvis sits flush with mine. God, is he made of granite? There is an enormous item digging into my lower stomach I should know nothing about.

Now I know exactly what Deon is packing, and I’ll never be able to forget.

“Did you just tackle me?” I finally ask.

Deon blinks, gaze unfocused. “I…uh.”

He shifts, his hips digging into my lower stomach. The blood in my veins is lava, my body ready to erupt like a volcano. Deon's golden chain dangles between us.

“If you wanted to get on top of me, all you had to do was ask,” I tease, attempting to diffuse the tension. Instead, I make things far worse and, if it is even possible, more uncomfortable.

The color drains from his face as he gulps. Sea-foam green eyes dart to my lips, and my stomach bottoms out .

I struggle to inhale a full breath while gravity forces his entire body weight onto me. The soft, clean scent of Deon’s cologne fills my nostrils, and I bite my lip to prevent myself from taking a deeper inhale of the smell.

There’s something unique about it I want to uncover.

“Deon?” His eyes flutter, searching for something, but the weight of his body hurts, and I need him to move. He hums in response. “Can you get off of me?”

“Shit, yeah. Shit.”

He scrambles up, reaching a hand out once he stands. He’s still holding my hand when I’m vertical, and I subtly cough to break his trance. Deon snatches his hand away.

Ignoring his odd behavior, I survey the beautiful room. Massive mahogany bookshelves stand tall in front of deep, evergreen walls. A sprawling L-shaped couch sits in the middle of the room, covered in large, fluffy throw pillows, and a massive flatscreen TV is mounted to the wall.

It’s shockingly well-decorated and meticulously tidy, like the rest of Deon’s home so far, but what stops me in my tracks is the Lord of the Rings theme of the space.

Framed posters from each of the movies line the only wall void of bookshelves filled with small figurines and memorabilia acting as bookends.

Holy shit. He’s secretly a nerd. A big, goofy, guarded nerd.

A laugh tumbles out before I can hold it back. If you haven’t seen Lord of the Rings , you might miss the more subtle references. Fortunately for Deon, his fake girlfriend proudly owns the extended cut on Blu-Ray and spent her adolescence convinced she and Orlando Bloom would get married .

I’m still hopeful. If I thought I stood a chance, I would drop Deon and this fake relationship like a bad habit and ride off into the sunset on a white stallion with Orlando riding sidesaddle.

Deon quietly assesses me as I walk around the room, slightly uneven on my feet after his impressive tackle.

My eyes snag on a Fellowship of the Ring movie poster framed on the side wall.

“Is that…” I trail off, confident my eyes are deceiving me. There’s no way. I take a small step toward the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes on.

My soggy, disastrous apartment is quickly forgotten in the presence of this glorious sight and Deon’s gorgeous home.

“It is.” He confirms. I refuse to peel my eyes away from the poster for fear it will disappear. Deon moves to stand beside me.

“Signed by the entire cast?” I ask.

“Every single one.”

“Even Orlando Bloom?” I need verbal verification before I faint because if I find out he touched the poster in front of me, fainting is a high possibility.

“Mhm. Even Legolas himself.”

“Yeah, I’m going to faint.”

Large hands bracket my shoulders, spinning me around. Deon’s frantic eyes search my face. “Do you need water? Gummy bears?”

“What?”

“You said you were going to faint. Is your blood sugar low?” His brows furrow, and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I might fixate on that thought, but Orlando Bloom touched that poster, which is far more important than Deon's adorable eyebrow crinkle .

“I’m fine.” A few steps, and I’m inches away from the poster. “He touched this…”

The room begins to spin.

“Nathalie?” The concern in Deon’s question breaks my stupor, and I shift to look at him. His eyes flick around the room, cataloging all the items. I’ve never seen such open vulnerability, as though he is waiting for me to belittle what brings him joy.

“Are you a nerd, Deon Adams?” I banish the small smile tugging at my lips, wanting to hide how much I like the image of Deon Adams cosplaying as Aragorn. He nods, the action nearly imperceptible. I run across the hall into my temporary room and dig through my bags to find the blanket Maren gifted to me for my birthday. I hold it behind my back when I return. “I have a secret to tell you,” I admit.

His eyes narrow. “Okay?”

“I’m a nerd, too.”

I reveal my blanket, holding it outstretched so Deon can view its glory. Different versions of Orlando Bloom as Legolas throughout the movies cover the blanket. Maren had it custom-made online, and it's one of my prized possessions.

Deon slumps forward, hands on his knees. His body shakes as he chokes down air. When he lifts his head, his eyes are shining with unshed tears.

“It’s beautiful,” he coughs out.

I drape it over the back of the couch.

“It’s one of the many things in my collection. Now, it can add temporary spice to the best room in your house.”

I give one of the Legolas on the blanket a fat smooch, and Deon shakes his head. He grins, dimples popping.

“Thank you,” he says, almost too quietly to hear.

“What for?”

I should be thanking him for letting me stay here and for allowing me into his space when I know he values his privacy. I should have thought about how it would have impacted him when I asked to stay with Declan.

I’m still new to this whole fake girlfriend thing, but in retrospect, it makes sense to stay with the man I’ve claimed to be my boyfriend.

“For not judging me.” I open my mouth to say I would never judge him when he stuns me into silence. “Savannah hated all of this. She thought it was stupid and a waste of my money.”

Air lodges in my throat, but I school my features into neutrality. Any display of emotion, positive or negative, might slam shut the emotional door he just cracked open.

I take a tentative step toward Deon.

“Nothing— nothing —you love or find joy in is a waste of time or money, Deon. Anyone who has made you feel that way is undeserving of you.”

Deon bites his lip, fighting to believe my words. Whoever Savannah is, she did a number on him, and because of that, I hate her, feminism be damned.

“I—I think you may be right.” The tiniest hint of a smile graces his lips, allowing for his dimples to peek out, and the sight of it is victorious.

“Are you planning to use the TV?”

Deon is sprawled on the couch, a tablet inches away from his face. The faint sound of cheering fills the room, and I wander around the kitchen, searching for a wine glass and a massive bowl.

It’s been two days since I moved in, and tonight is the first time I’ve seen Deon at home for more than a few minutes in passing. I’ve done my best to acquaint myself with his space while respecting his privacy, though I itch to explore the side of the house he didn’t show me.

The number of items labeled in the section of the house I have explored is outrageous. Cleaning products. Baking supplies. Even his junk drawer is neatly organized, all of his random items in their container with a label. He went as far as labeling the box of batteries with the word ‘batteries’ as if the packaging wasn't a dead giveaway.

Someone needs to ban Deon from owning a label maker.

“No,” Deon answers, sitting up as I pour snacks into the massive bowl. It’s my version of a party mix without all the bad parts, like peanuts and stale tortilla chips.

The recipe is an equal ratio of Goldfish crackers, flavored pretzels, Cheetos, Cheez-Its, gummy bears, and mini M&M’s. I’ve perfected it over the years.

I glance up to find Deon in the kitchen, hand creeping into my bowl of magical goodness. He snatches a pretzel and retreats to a safe distance to eat his bounty.

“These are dating show snacks,” I chide, but his cheeky smile tells me if I turn around, his hand will wind up right back in my bowl.

“Dating show?” Deon asks, following as I settle into the couch.

Watching the premiere on Deon’s massive flatscreen is so much better than my small laptop.

“Tonight is the first episode,” I say, pulling out the bracket I completed at work. “We’re meeting all the men vying for the woman’s heart.”

“You have a bracket?” Deon studies the paper like it’s code to launch a rocket ship. “Wait, how many men is she dating?”

“About thirty, I think.” I scroll through the channels when Deon blocks the television.

“ Thirty? ” I laugh at his shock. “Can I have one of these?” he asks, dangling the bracket in his grip.

“You want to watch with me?” Surprise creeps into my question, and Deon blushes.

“Will you share your snacks?” I nod, and Deon’s smile is tiny. “Then yes, I want to watch with you. I can work on my puzzle tomorrow.”

His puzzle?

“Do you have a printer?”

Fifteen minutes later, Deon is scrolling through the contestant page online, asking far too many questions.

“You pick based on vibes ,” I groan, growing antsy to start the show. Half the fun is reading what people post online in real time. The longer I have to wait for Deon to fill out his bracket, the longer I have to avoid reading the funny internet comments.

He dared to ask if he could read their statistics as if they were athletes and not random men selected for a dating show.

Deon scribbles his winner, and I lean over to peek at who he’s chosen. He snatches the paper away, clutching it to his chest.

“No cheating,” Deon declares. “You can’t see who I chose until the end of the episode, or else you might change your bracket.”

“I already chose David. He’s dreamy .”

Deon scowls.

“He’s not that dreamy,” he grumbles, and I chuckle, starting the show.

We watch the first half of the episode in silence, and periodically, Deon’s hand reaches into my snack bowl, shoveling handfuls of the mix into his mouth.

He’s an enigma I get closer to cracking after every interaction. I’ve enjoyed the time we’ve spent together, as short as it's been. I will admit that the first half of our fake date made me nervous about how we would pull this off. Answering my questions with grunts did not make for the best start, but a good taco truck can change everything, and by the end of the night, Deon was less guarded.

Maybe we can end this whole fake dating scheme as friends, not two people in the same friend group.

The woman pulls a contestant away from the rest of the group, and Deon leans forward, elbows braced on his knees as he watches in rapt attention.

I should focus on the TV, but Deon’s reactions are as exciting as the show. Every sigh he releases when a contestant says something dumb pulls a snicker from my lips. Even as he grumbles, his investment in the show increases.

He’s enjoying himself.

A massive palm lands on my thigh, tapping rapidly.

“Oh my God. They’re going to kiss.” His touch is erratic as his excitement grows. “He’s leaning in,” Deon begins to announce the show as if it’s a football game and I lose it, keeling over. “They’re kissing! Nathalie, they’re making out!”

I have no idea who is sitting beside me on the couch, but it is not the Deon Adams I thought I knew.

Deon snatches his bracket with a triumphant grin. He flips it around.

“My guy is going to win,” he declares with far more cockiness than he should. There are ten episodes left. It’s anybody's game. “Mark my words. Ian is going to win.”

I shake my head, and Deon moves closer, only inches away.

“Wanna bet on it?” Deon’s smile is mischievous. I forgot how much he loves betting on stupid things.

“What did you have in mind?”

“If my contestant makes it farther than yours, you have to cook dinner for us while you stay here.”

“Alright…” I cook for myself nearly every night. Doubling the recipe doesn’t seem too difficult.

“And if I win?”

“You can have the signed Fellowship of the Ring poster.”

I stop breathing. It's not a fair bet, far from it. But I am not going to tell him that.

My hand hovers between us.

“Shake on it?”

Instead of taking my hand, Deon wraps his pinky around mine. His eyes never leave mine, the mesmerizing green peering into the depths of my soul as he says, “Pinky promise.”

I spend the rest of the show banishing the small fluttering in my chest from the way he looked at me.