Page 65 of Faking It
The minute we get back to the coach or are alone, he doesn’t touch or even look my way even when I’ve given him more than ample opportunity to. It’s like there’s this imaginary line down the middle of the bed. He makes sure he’s nowhere near the bedroom when I’m changing, taking a shower, or even going to bed. He’s up before me despite being a self-proclaimed non-morning person. It’s almost as if he’s not even there.
I can’t figure out if this whole turn of events makes me relieved that the pressure is off or conflicted that he seems to not be interested.
Do I want to sleep with him again? Yes. Yes. Oh, and yes. But at the cost of proving him right? That’s a hard one.
But . . . but if I make him call Uncle first . . . won’t I be getting both—a win to prove him wrong and some incredible sex to celebrate it?
So what do I do? I wiggle my ass as discretely as possible and earn a groan from him.
I suffer as well in the process, feeling his dick harden beneath me and hit right in the spot where I’d lower myself onto it.
“Oopsie. I didn’t mean to do that,” I say in a taunting voice.
“Zane Phillips.” We both flash our eyes up like little kids caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. The sudden tensing of our bodies in awareness only serves for me to feel how hard he is.
“Kostas? What the hell are you doing here?” Zane asks, complete shock woven in his tone.
When I look up, there is a man bearing down on us. His hair is longish but pulled back in a slick man bun. His coloring is fascinating: olive skin, the clearest gray eyes that almost look translucent, dark hair. His clothes are expensive and his swagger is prominent as he reaches us.
He’s handsome in a European, sophisticated type of way. I can’t put my finger on how I know it, but he comes from money. And privilege. You can spot it a mile away.
When the two men shake hands, I go to stand, but Zane holds me tight with his free hand so the only place I can move is sideways on his lap.
“I was stopping through for some meetings and have been following your new . . . uh, venture,” he says in an accented voice with humor in his eyes.
“If you’ve been following it then that means it’s getting the publicity it deserves. Jealous Kos—” Zane abruptly stops when Kostas turns his gaze on me. Within a mere second I’ve been measured and assessed and objectified. For a woman accustomed to using her body to sell products, there’s something about Kostas’s stare that unnerves me.
It’s almost as if he wants to eat me alive.
“And who might you be?”
“Harlow Nicks,” Zane says over me.
“She can speak for herself,” Kostas says with a lift of his eyebrow at Zane. “Isn’t that her job?”
And in that one exchange, my anger over Zane stepping on my toes turns to appreciation. He’s protecting me. I’m just not sure from what.
“Harlow Nicks,” I say for myself and this time when I go to stand, Zane releases me. He stands as well so we’re all on even footing.
“It’s a pleasure,” he says and then lifts my hand to his lips.
Uncomfortable with the testosterone riddled vibe, I pull my hand back and take a step closer to Zane. “And how do you two know each other?” I ask.
“We’re old friends,” Zane says and Kostas smiles. “We went to college together and Kostas is here to try and stick his fingers in my pie. I love him to death, but I also know he can’t stand when someone else is doing better than him at certain things.”
A look exchanged between the two that tells me there is obviously more going on here than meets the eye.
“There’s still plenty of time left. Leave that ego at the door, mate,” Kostas says with a laugh, but I can tell Zane calling him on the carpet about whatever they are talking about bugs him. Kostas turns his attention back to me. “What Zane is really worried about is that you’re going to get one look at me and realize you’re missing out on this while being with him.”
A smile spreads on my lips and I just shake my head, uncertain if Kostas is serious or joking. “I’m perfectly happy with how things are.”
“Then I guess asking you out to dinner would be out of the question.”
“You assumed correct,” I say, more than happy to stand my ground.
Kostas takes us both in before turning his gaze back to Zane. “So you’re a one woman man now?” Zane tenses beside me. “When did this startling development happen? Last time we talked, you were—”
“Kostas.” Everything about Zane’s tone is a warning.
