Page 17 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

“Too late. I’m framing it,” she grinned, and it was the first genuine smile I had seen from her all night. “Liam James thinks I’m talented. Alert the media. The TMZ. The Times.”

“They’re already alerted. We are trending, remember? Hashtag Liamika.”

“That’s a terrible couple’s name,” she grimaced.

“We’re not a couple.”

“Obviously.”

But she was still smiling, and I was still staring, and the alcohol was making everything feel significant.

“We should go,” I said eventually, when the party had thinned to just a few stragglers, and Ethan and Kiara had long since said their goodbyes. “Neither of us can drive.”

“Hotel,” Deepika said. “Two beds, though.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m serious. Two beds. I’m not sleeping with you.”

“I wouldn’t sleep with you if you were the last woman on Earth, Sharma,” I confessed, letting her hold my arm and be a gentleman with her for once.

“Good.”

“Great.”

We glared at each other, and I couldn’t remember why we were arguing.

I booked a room on my phone at the nicest hotel nearby because I was drunk, but not drunk enough to forget I had standards. Two beds. I checked. Double-checked and, for good measure, triple-checked.

Because if it turned out to be one bed, Deepika would never let that go.

The elevator ride down from the rooftop was quiet, both of us sobering slightly in the fluorescent lights. Deepika leaned against the wall, her golden dress rumpled, her makeup smudged, looking nothing like the polished actress who had walked in hours ago.

She looked genuine and so beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with her stylists or that tight dress showing her ample curves or the warm lighting.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to stare at her for too long when our cab arrived. My house was nearby, but… taking her there felt too intimate and scary. As if we were crossing a line, so the hotel was a safe bet.

Unfortunately, the hotel elevator was smaller and more intimate.

We stood on opposite sides, the hum of machinery the only sound besides our breathing. The alcohol was still warming my blood, making everything feel slower, heavier, and more dangerous.

Deepika’s dress strap had slipped off her shoulder, and she didn’t move to fix it.

My hand clenched at my side, looking anywhere but at her slender throat, the curve of her collarbones or the cleavage—remember you made fun of her bra size like an idiot?

Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol and from the California heat, or maybe she was blushing? Her eyes were soft in a way I had never seen before, and I didn’t like the effect they had on me.

She was looking at me the same way I was looking at her. And neither of us wanted to look away.

“You look terrible,” I said, my voice rougher than intended.

She bit her lip and swallowed hard. “So do you, Fish Boy.”

Fish Boy. The nickname from when we were eight, when I would spend entire summers in the pool.

“Deepika, I⁠—”

She stepped forward, closing the distance between us. Not touching, but close enough that I could smell her perfume mixed with champagne and sugar.