Page 2 of Faking It with a Single Dad

“You didn’t notice me?”

“No, I did not.”

He smiles again, telling me he knows I am lying. There’s something about him that makes me want to throw caution to the wind and do things I didn’t think I was capable of doing.

“Do you dance?” He holds a hand out.

Tonight, I do. I put my glass to my lips and finished the drink. I won’t be trying it again.

I take his hand, and he leads me onto the dance floor. He twirls me around to the beat of the music, and I follow his lead without thinking twice about it. Whenever I turn toward him, I see his eyes on me behind his mask, his gaze unyielding, and his lips curl in a mysterious smile.

“You’re a good dancer,” he says, his low voice piercing the loud night.

“You’re a great dance partner.”

Synth music comes on, and he pulls me close to him. I drink in his oaky scent and try everything I can not to stare at his soft lips. He looks down at me as his hand stays on my lower back. My chest presses against him. I grip his arm as we dance and feel the stiff, taut muscles underneath his suit.

If his arm is this hard, how hard is his—

“I like your hair.” He brings his mouth close to my ear and whispers.

Goosebumps break out on my skin from his voice rumbling in my ear, and I’m suddenly thankful for wearing a long-sleeved gown. I subconsciously touch my hair with my free hand.

“I like the few strands of white in the sea of black curls,” he says.

I have always had errant strands of white hair, and so does my mom. Try being in high school and having strands of white hair. Kids used to call me Old Layla when I was fifteen.

Yeah, Old Layla. Terribly unoriginal.

“I used to hate it.”

He frowns. “What do you mean? You used to—”

“I used to hate having grey hair.”

“It’s hardly grey.”

“Kids don’t see such nuances.”

Mr. Dark Eyes nods like he understands, and I wonder if he does. We dance wordlessly. My pulse quickens as his fingers dance on my skin, and when he pulls me close, I give myself to him. His hand moves my body to music, familiarizing himself with my curves. Our unpracticed movements almost feel like foreplay, and I can’t get enough. I can sense the eyes of the other masked strangers on us. I decided to give them a show.

We danced like we’d danced together many times before as we rehearsed before coming to the party.

He bends me backward at the waist and follows me down as my leg kicks up in the air. Our faces are inches apart—our lips, breaths apart. He says nothing as he lifts me back up. I can feel the effect of the whiskey. My heady mind pushes me to place a hand on his chest.

“Who are you?” I can’t keep myself from asking.

“You’re breaking the first rule of a masquerade party.” He smirks.

“Can’t fault me; it’s my first masquerade party.”

“Could have fooled me. You seem like a natural at scenes like this.”

“I do?”

“Yeah.” He raises me quickly into the air by my waist. I shoot both hands into the air like a trained ballet dancer.

He slowly lowers me, my body rubbing against his as he does. My breasts graze his jaw as he looks up at me from underneath his mask. I can feel my depths moistening from the contact and the heat of his body—or the whiskey, I can’t tell anymore.

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