Page 5 of Hard to Fake

Miles hits the locks and opens the passenger door. “You can drip all over your leather or all over mine.”

He’s tall enough to easily rest an elbow along the top. His other hand opens, waiting.

I turn it over.

Getting my car detailed was not in my plans for the week.

I drop my keys into his open palm and get in the passenger side.

“You wanted to swim, you could’ve done it in July rather than the end of October,” he suggests as he shifts into the driver’s seat.

I pry a piece of curling hair off my forehead. “I had a plan.”

“A wet plan?”

So much for the straightening job that took me an hour.

I’m tempted to toss my hair out of pettiness and watch the droplets spatter his interior, but it would be a crime against the beautiful leather.

“It was going perfectly until you showed up,” I inform him.

He snorts and reaches for the vents in front of me, angling them so warm air blows at me.

“Why were you working behind the camera?” he asks.

“Thought I’d broaden my horizons. Learn more about the other side of the industry.” I shift in my seat. “What’s up with you and Aliya? I didn’t know you were dating.”

“Wouldn’t go that far.”

“Ahh, the truth comes out. So, she DM’d you a pic of her topless and you agreed to dinner.”

“Or I sent her a pic of me bottomless.” He winks and starts to whistle along with the radio.

Miles is the chillest guy I’ve ever met.Everyone loves him: his teammates, his competition, and every female basketball fan in the country.

But he’s not larger than life to me like he is to the rest of the basketball world.

So what if once in a while when his grin lasts too long, it makes my stomach flip?

It’s a natural reaction to a hot-AF man. Nothing personal.

“You’re not whistling to Kendrick right now,” I say.

“The ladies love it.”

When he hits the chorus, I can’t stop the eye roll.

The heating system starts to send warm air in earnest, and it feels good. I groan and stretch my fingers toward the heat.

Without looking over, Miles turns it up more.

At a light, he reaches into the back seat and retrieves a sweatshirt, dropping it in my lap.

“What size is this, Sasquatch?” I hoist an arm of the giant cotton form into the air.

“I’ll find you something else to wear if you tell me why you were really working on that shoot.”

My mouth falls open.

---