Page 34 of Hard to Fake

Everything is about appearances.

"Miles, it's me," I call, my voice echoing down the hallway.

Barking sounds through the door. Waffles.

There's a moment of silence before the door opens. The Frenchie barrels toward me, but it’s Miles, shirtless and still damp from a shower, that hijacks my attention.

His massive frame fills the doorway, blocking out the light at his back.

Gray sweatpants cling to muscled legs and hips. His ridiculously cut pecs and abs are on full display. Sleepy blue eyes are fringed with dark lashes.

He smells clean and fresh and addictive. His jaw is razor-sharp and smooth shaven, and I ignore the itch to stretch up a hand and run a finger along it.

I've been around athletes my entire life. Through my brother's friends in school, I've seen the gross things they pull, the ways they smell, the jokes they tell. I decided years ago that I’m immune to whatever charms they think they have.

But as I soak in all six-four of Miles, I’m weak.

"Hey.” His voice is low and easy, reminding me why he’s the coolest fucker in the entire Western Conference.

I force myself to tear my gaze away from his body and look him in the eyes. “Glad you didn’t dress up.”

He shrugs a muscled shoulder with an easy grace. “Figured you were dressing me up, so it didn't matter what I started in."

“Whatever you say, debate team captain.” I walk past him, trying to ignore the way his scent lingers in the air.

“Do I sense sarcasm?” He lets the door swing shut after me. “I was very book smart in college.”

“Long as they’re picture books. With boobs.”

“I love all books equally. Even the ones with boobs.”

His apartment is modern and minimalistic, and there are no dirty dishes or clothes lying around. It's as though he actually takes care of himself.

I slip off my boots and follow him into the kitchen. The place is immaculate, everything in its place and not a speck of dust in sight. I always imagined him living in an expensive bachelor pad with beer cans and pizza boxes strewn about. But this place looks as if it belongs in a magazine.

Probably his housekeeper.

Miles gestures to the kitchen. “Almond milk latte?”

“Sure.” I’m surprised he remembers as I follow him to the counter. Waffles whines at my feet, and I bend to pick him up. “You’re heavier than you look.”

Miles shoots me a perplexed look. “He doesn’t like it when I pick him up.”

“You clearly don’t have the right touch.”

“Never had any complaints.”

His easy response strokes along my skin like a promise.

He’s used to women falling at his feet. Even if I’m a little wobbly on mine, I’d die before I let on.

“Let’s get something straight before we go any further,” I start. “We might be committing to the act next weekend, but nothing is real.”

Miles opens his cupboard and retrieves a bag of espresso beans as if he hasn’t heard me.

“Got it?” I call over the whirring of the grinder as he gets to work.

No idea how he doesn’t burn himself, being half naked while he steams milk, but he manages.

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