Page 40 of Hard to Fake

I like getting under her skin. I could live there a minute.

We’re inches apart when her fingers go to my shirt, brushing mine out of the way.

“You have big hands,” she murmurs. Her lips are parted, her lashes half lowered as she focuses on her work.

“Thanks. I do some of my best work with them.” I grin.

Her manicure is bright blue, the color of the ocean in the Caribbean.

"How is the season going?" she asks as she works her way down from the top button.

She grazes my abs. I want to grab her hand and slide it lower.

I don’t often share my personal struggles, but her point-blank question makes me want to answer, and the back of this boutique feels private.

“I worked this summer on my shooting, and I got better. Except I don’t know if better is good enough with us being short-handed."

She finishes with the buttons and adjusts the cuffs. Her wrists are small. I could circle them with my thumb and pinkie.

“There must be something you can do. Maybe you're holding yourself back." She tilts her face up, showing me those gorgeous dark eyes.

The comment catches me off guard.

“It’s not high school, Princess. We can’t play scrappy and cover each other’s spots. This is a professional league, and every guy has to slot in.”

“Even if I agreed with you on that, there’s more you could try. Dig in. Get tough. Take things personally.”

Brooke stands on her toes, reaching up to adjust my collar.

“Oh, like you do?” I ask.

She wobbles, and I catch her waist with one hand to steady her. She’s warm through her shirt, her stomach soft under my thumb.

I don’t wear a lot of collared shirts, but I might need to start.

“Last year,” she gives me side-eye, “you had a goal to fight for. You were underdogs. But now, you have nothing to prove. The entire team can sit around in a massive circle jerk and reminisce about your glory days."

“That’s not true,” I say.

“Isn’t it?” Her chin lifts. “You play the same game, date the same girls. Maybe you need more to motivate you."

My smile slips.

I take three steps forward, and she nearly trips trying to keep up. Her back flattens against the wall, and I put a hand on either side of her head.

“You want to dish it out, you better be able to take it,” I say.

Her big, dark eyes blink up at me. “What does that mean?”

She’s not telling me the whole truth. It started earlier with her phone, the cracked screen she ignored when I know for a fact she likes everything perfect.

“There’s a reason you want this contract so much that you’re willing to go to these lengths to get it.”

She dismisses the question. “I’m competitive.”

“Yeah, that’s not it.”

She looks away, and I capture her chin in my thumb and forefinger.

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