Page 86 of Second Down Fake

“Zoey didn’t come from humble roots?” I wandered over to the fishing poles leaned against the truck bed, moving them aside to hop up.

Diego sat down beside me. “Her dad was a director. She grew up in a mansion outside Beverly Hills. I think the closest she ever got to a place like this was on a movie set.”

“And you’ve been to my hometown, so you know I can slum it in a small town?” An awkward hollow feeling gripped my stomach. “And because we’re not really dating, I guess.”

“Not dating yet,” he corrected with a cocky grin.

“You seem awfully sure about that.” I rolled my eyes.

Diego’s arrogance was impossible to ignore even despite the contract and the drastic differences between our lifestyles. And I blamed that cocky arrogance on why I asked him to bring me to his high school make out spot. Last night, under the influence of peach moonshine and way too much confidence, I believed I’d take him out here, tease him mercilessly, and give him nothing.

On Lake Elvis Presley of all places.

Kismet. And a disaster.

I pushed off the truck bed, scooping up a fishing pole and opening the tackle box.

“We should get these in the water before the sun sets. What are we catching?”

Diego followed in my wake, watching me sort through the assortment of hooks and lures. “I’m not actually sure. Trout and Crappie, maybe?”

“I’ve only gone fly-fishing. My strategy is to pick the shiniest lure. It’s always served me well.”

“You don’t actually want to catch anything, do you?”

The slight tremor in his voice brought my attention away from the tackle box and onto him. “Um…yeah. Why else are we out here?”

“We’re out here so you can see if I can actually fish?”

“I’m also interested if you can gut a fish,” I smiled. “So, two reasons, really.”

“I’ll save you the effort: I cannot gut a fish. Weak stomach.”

I laughed. “And you’re admitting that?”

“What’s the alternative? Catch a fish and have you find out firsthand how high my voice can get when I’m nervous?”

“No. Hope to god I don’t catch anything and maintain your manly illusion.” I grabbed a silver lure with long metallic streamers shooting out the end.

Diego watched me tie on the lure, eyes growing wide. “Oh, shit, you’re serious.”

The sun set over the tree line and with the fishing poles in the water, we climbed back into the truck bed, one sleeping bag propped up behind us and the other over my legs, watching the lines.

“So, did Elvis swim in this lake or something?”

Diego grinned, his brown eyes glinting in the dying light. The chilled air brushed my skin and I pulled the bag above my waist, my body listing into his. “Born nearby. I can’t confirm or deny that he swam here.”

“But thanks to him, you’ll only ever be the second most famous county resident.”

He blew out a breath. “And he was technically born in the next county over. I’m probably never getting a lake, though.”

“You might get a bridge. Or a highway.”

“More like a picnic table.” Diego set his beer on the wheel well, his other arm sneaking around my back, fingers brushing my waist.

“Hey, buddy. I’m just out here to show you how to fish. No funny business.” His grip tightened on my waist, and I rested my chin on his shoulder. “This isn’t Vegas.”

“But you know who sang Viva Las Vegas, right?” The cocky confidence in his voice made my stomach flip.

---