Page 37 of Faking It
“Ahh, the all knowing power of Google. Did you look up my sordid past while you were at it?”
And why does that fucking bug me if she has? What about my past do I want to hide from her when I’ve never fucking cared before what people think of the many women I’ve dated. Hell, I looked her up. I even searched all the men whose arms she was on.
Or maybe it’s not my dating past I don’t want her to know about, but rather the life I left behind that I’d prefer to keep out of the discussion.
“Your past was nothing I didn’t expect.” She shrugs. “So where does Robert come into play in all of this?”
“His monetary contribution helps, but his value to SoulM8 is in his experience in the industry and his vast network of connections with the media.”
“So it’s his influence you’re after.”
I take a sip of my drink, lean back in my chair, and just stare at her. How did we get here? How in the fuck am I sitting here, pretending to be a couple, pushing a dating website?
Fucking Kostas and his contest.
“His influence? Yes. Ever heard of IMM?”
I can see the confusion flicker over her face. The same confusion I first felt when I met him while I tried to rationalize that this unassuming man was the scrupulous businessman who founded and built International Market Media to be one of the top publicity firms in the country.
She eyes me as if she’s still trying to wrap her head around it. “You mean . . .?”
“Yes, as in International Market Media,” I say. “It was started, owned, and sold for a pretty penny and a lot of stock options by one Robert and Sylvie Waze about fifteen years ago.”
Surprise registers on her face, lips shocked in an O, those eyes of hers rich with colors flash with fascination. “He told me he had a company, but I would have never known that was it.”
“Not everyone is who they seem, Harlow.”
“HEY YOU.” ZANE’S MURMURED VOICE breaks through my fog of sleep and for the briefest of moments, I thinking he’s speaking to me.
My body stills, the affection in his tone sounding a little too familiar for me.
He chuckles softly, the sound echoing through the darkness of the bedroom, prompting me to open my eyes. I glance at the clock on the nightstand to find it’s three in the morning.
What the hell? Who is he talking to?
“You like that? Do you?”
I freeze, the playfulness in his voice and my sudden awareness of the blue light from his computer screen shocking me fully awake.
“Have you been playing with yourself? Do you miss me doing it? Huh? It seems you can do it all on your own?”
Please. No.
“Are you kidding me?” I ask louder than I should as I sit up in bed, pulling the covers around me. “Can’t you have some common courtesy and not do that when I’m lying right here?”
“Do what?” he asks as he turns abruptly to look at me, shirt off, face highlighted by the screen.
“That!” I say shoving a finger to the computer screen I’m petrified to look at.
“This?” He laughs in the most disbelieving of ways, pulling my eyes to what he’s pointing at.
And then I die.
Of embarrassment. Of sweetness overload. Of my own idiocy.
There on the screen of Zane’s computer is a room with a very large bed. Standing on said bed angling his head from one side to the other is none other than Smudge.
Yep. The dog.
