Page 55 of Faking It
Jesus, Low. Quit reading into things. Quit wanting things.
“It is,” I murmur and hold his stare. He doesn’t fit in here in the least. Sure he has jeans and a T-shirt on and appears casual, but there is nothing remotely plain about Zane. Even dressed down, he catches the eyes of the women around us. And even though he’s clearly out of his element, the fact that he doesn’t care is sexy.
We sit there for a few moments while I try and figure what to talk about. We never have awkwardness between us and yet there is an underlying edge to Zane right now—has been all night, really—that I just can’t put my finger on.
“What did Robert mean earlier when he said he might switch some of our schedule up?”
“No fucking clue.” His sigh is much heavier than his response reflects. “This is his forte so whatever he says is supposed to go.”
“Supposed to?”
“Yeah, supposed to. It’s in our contract.”
“I’m surprised you gave up control.”
He eyes me sideways. “Sometimes you have to give up a little control to ensure success in the end.”
“Hmm,” I say, feeling like there’s more beneath what he’s saying that I don’t understand.
The music changes and some people leave the dance floor, unhappy with the song selection while others excitedly walk on.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks and throws me momentarily.
“If I had one do you really think he’d be okay with me being here right now pretending to be yours?” Or that I’d let you kiss me like you have? I think but don’t voice. The less mention of kissing him, the better.
Because mentioning it makes me think of doing it. And thinking about it makes me want him to do it again.
Yep, I’m in trouble. Big, fat trouble.
“You?” I ask. “How come you don’t have a girlfriend?”
He purses his lips and takes a drink of his beer. “I dabble.”
“Dabble?” I repeat through a laugh and god does it feel good to laugh with him. The tension of being in close quarters is gone. The notion of being under a microscope, our every motion monitored, gone.
“Yeah, dabble. Nothing serious. Nothing permanent. I don’t have enough time to give that to someone.” He shrugs.
“Good thing I’m just here for the sex then,” I say as a joke but just when I think my joke falls flat, I can see the green of Zane’s eyes darken. His spine stiffens and there’s a hitch in the motion of the beer he’s lifting to his lips.
“Is that so?” he says after a beat, the tone and mood of the conversation changing instantly. A change I don’t find myself apologetic over in the least.
We both know why we’re here.
We both know what’s going to happen.
We both still came anyway.
It’s been in the little touches all night. The subtle glances. The unspoken words that I can hear underlying our every conversation.
Wanting him is okay, Low. Having feelings for him on the other hand . . . is not.
The beat of the music changes. The bartender interrupts the sudden sexual tension bouncing in the space between us. When he leaves, Zane angles his head and stares at me.
“You’re gorgeous.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “I don’t need to be sweet talked, Phillips.”
“Good thing because I’m not one to sweet talk.” He waits a beat. “You look gorgeous.”
