Joy nods him in and watches him as he sits on the bed. “What do you want to do today?”

“Wallow in a vat of misery.” She laughs, hollow and defeated.

His eyebrows fly upward. “Or we could do something fun.”

“Like what?”

“Whatever will make you happiest.”

“I don’t deserve to be happy.”

“I don’t deserve to be miserable,” he says. “We’re spending the day together. Might as well meet in the middle at content.”

“We are?”

He nods.

Why is he so concerned with her happiness? So far, the best parts of the weekend for Joy were all with Fox. Now here he is again, wanting to spend his one free day with her. She made Summer cry—surely that’s a few points in the evil column that he should take into consideration.

And why does he keep putting everyone else first?

The entire trip was built around Summer—everything she loved and wanted, everything Malcolm could give her. He even included Joy in some of that planning by making a modicum of space and buying her gifts. Nothing for Fox at all except that damn cake.

He could do anything: sleep, go for a seven-hour walk, swim in the lake, take the boat out for a joy ride to give Malcolm a heart attack, but no. He’s choosing her.

Not for show. For them. He wants her company.

Joy makes up her mind and asks, “What do you want to do?”

“Me?”

“There’s no one else here except for my shadow person in the corner but I don’t think they count in daylight,” she jokes. “What do you want to do, Fox? It’s your day. I hereby decree it. Whatever you want.”

He’s surprised—staring at her like she just tried to sell him the moon. “I don’t know.”

I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen him this interested in someone this fast, Summer had said . . . he’s faking it.

They had agreed to pretend to like each other, but there’s nothing fake about what has resulted from it. Wanting to know him, to talk to him, to make him laugh and trick him into smiling—all of that is real. Joy genuinely likes Fox.

“Pick something,” she says, crawling out of her cocoon and across the bed. She stops directly in front of him, sitting on her knees, hands on his shoulders. “You’ve been nothing but good to me this entire time. Let me do something for you.”

“You already did.”

“Birthday cake doesn’t count. Everyone gets one.”

“It was a really good cake,” he says solemnly.