PREVIEW

... —except for the roar of my bike and the occasional squeeze of her arms around me whenever I took a sharp turn. She held onto me tight, and I liked it more than I should.

By the time we reached her neighborhood, I was regretting this entire deal.

Because it was getting harder to remember that it was fake.

I pulled up outside a house that looked way too perfect, way too polished—like the kind of place you put on postcards. Everything was neat, trimmed, organized. Fake. Just ...

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The honey between the cliffs tastes good, and the fish and shrimp in the stream are interesting.

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