Page 47 of Faking It
But all I can think is that if I tell him yes, then doesn’t that open the door for him to do the same? The churning in my stomach at the thought has me shutting my mouth.
And reconfirms that I really do need a little bit of space to clear my head.
“Sorry to let you down, Zane, but there is no one else.” I swallow over the lump in my throat. “I’m not feeling well and we’ve been in each other’s business for the past six days . . . I thought maybe we could each use a bit of space since it’s one of the only opportunities we’ll have. I don’t know, just so we don’t get on each other’s nerves or something.”
The green of his eyes burn through the dimly lit night and I can see the fight in them to decide whether he believes me or not.
That in itself should piss me off. The fact that I want him to believe me when in reality it’s really none of his business what I’m doing with my personal time.
And yet I want him to believe me.
I don’t want him to think I’m with someone else.
“Let me walk you to the hotel,” he says softly as he steps back so I can disembark from the bus.
“I’m fine. You don’t have to. I’m sure you’re tired.”
Why am I suddenly so nervous?
“I’m walking you.”
And we do. We walk in silence across the parking lot to the front of the hotel. He escorts me to the lighted entrance.
“Let me go in and put the room on our bill for the night.”
“That’s not necessary, but thank you.” I reach out and put my hand on his bicep to stop him. “I’ve already booked it.”
“Then I’ll call my contact and take care of it that way.” He gives me a tight smile and for the first time I can see how tired he is. My first instinct is to reach up and touch his cheek, then I realize how stupid that would be when he’s Zane—untouchable, my boss, a player, and I’m me—too trusting, off-balance, confused.
At least I know he’s not getting any more sleep than I am. This whole co-sleeping in the same bed where I’m trying to not move all night long so I don’t accidently end up cuddling beside him in my sleep is having a similar effect on him as well.
“Thank you, Zane.”
“Let me to walk you up to your room?”
“No, I’m fine. This was kind enough.” I look down at my fingers fiddling with the strap of my bag and hate how his very presence is making my nerves dance around.
“I hope you feel better.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
When I look back up, Zane is right there, in my face, seconds before his lips press lightly to my cheek and stay there. “Get a good night’s sleep, Harlow,” he murmurs into my ear.
“Yes.” My voice is breathless. My heart is thumping. “You too.”
It’s only when he gets about ten feet away that I breathe again. His strong back is broad against the night’s darkness. Shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tailored slacks hugging his ass perfectly, the silver of his watch reflecting off the parking lot lights overhead. I watch him walk toward the coach until I can’t see him anymore.
And then I stare after him some more.
This is not good.
Not the sudden butterflies in my belly. Not that burning ache between my thighs. Not me wanting to follow after him.
This isn’t supposed to happen. Me liking him. Me rationalizing to myself why it would be okay to sleep with him. We’re stuck in the same tour bus for weeks on end, after all. Two single, attractive adults. It would just be the natural progression of things.
It’s never a good thing when I begin to justify my actions before I act on them. Or forget the reasons why I’m not supposed to like him—his ego, his mood swings, his privilege.
Never.
