Page 43 of Faking It
I should’ve slept with Simone before we left. I should have accepted the hints she was offering me when we met for drinks the other night. Maybe that would’ve helped.
Maybe that would have satisfied me.
Such a crock of shit, mate. That wouldn’t have done it. Not when you were looking at Simone but thinking about Harlow.
The difference is, if it had been Simone, it all would have been easy. Too fucking easy.
The way she trailed her fingertip over her collarbone to direct my gaze at her cleavage as if I couldn’t miss it. The way she slid the toe of her high heels up and down the front of my shin beneath the table. The way she downed her drink in one sip and explained that she didn’t have a gag reflex.
That was all I could think of the entire time. This—she—everything about her was too fucking easy. Always saying the right thing. Always perfect in positioning, in the way she pouted her lips, in the suggestion lacing every single innuendo she threw my way.
Not once did she throw her hand to her hip and tell me like it is. Not once did she argue or challenge or call me on the carpet.
Fucking Harlow.
It’s all her fault. This. The tour. Me wanting her. All of it.
And that’s why I’m running right now. Pushing myself through the streets of Austin at a pace I don’t run. Exhausting myself so that when I go back to the
tour bus, I don’t do the one thing I couldn’t stop thinking about this morning.
Fucking her. Taking her to bed and finishing what that kiss between us started last night.
Because Harlow Nicks spells trouble for me in every sense of the word. She has my every wire crossed. And she’s made me hesitate to step over a line I thought would be a no brainer to cross: sleeping with her.
Women like Simone want one thing: sex, the power that comes with the sex, the visibility for her career that comes with being associated with my name. That’s easy for me. I can give her or anyone that. It’s safe and clear cut and leaves my freedom untouched. And my heart.
No, I prefer a simple case of scratch my itch and I’ll scratch yours back.
Or lick. Licking’s always a good way to return the favor.
But with Harlow, it’s different. She’s not impressed by any of this. She thought the coach was cool—it is pretty fucking sick—but me? She’s not impressed by anything when it comes to me.
That’s different for me. Not the world I know. And fuck if I know what to do with it other than to stay as far as hell away from it.
Because if there’s one thing that guys do better than thumping their chests to win a contest, it’s staying as far away as possible from something that scares them.
And Harlow scares the hell out of me.
My feet falter as I run into the parking lot at the back of the convention center. The coach is there and Harlow’s silhouette is framed in the tinted windows of the kitchen area. She’s standing, bringing a mug of coffee to her lips, her hair piled on top of her head, calling to me just like the sound of her soft snores were this morning.
Welcome to hell, Phillips.
Where the temptation is hot as fuck, the consequences are damning, and the sins are at your fingertips waiting to burn you.
“HOW’S IT GOING, MIJA?”
Hearing my mom’s voice brings a sudden rush of homesickness I didn’t expect and tears burn the back of my eyes despite the smile on my lips. “It’s going. It’s so very different than what I expected and yet at the same time, I feel like it’s what I’m meant to do.”
“I’ve been seeing the advertisements. There was one in People Magazine yesterday.”
“There was?” I ask, feeling stupidly happy about that.
“Yes. It was a great shot of you and Zane. Sexy and stunning and it even had me thinking I might sign up for SoulM8 myself.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Why not? I may be older but I’ve still got parts that work and a prince waiting to fit me with a glass slipper.”
