Page 37 of Hard to Fake

I unwrap my lunch, aware of his gaze resting on me. I don’t want to harp on it and I’m grateful for what I have. “You know my family, but I don’t know much about yours,” I say as I bite into my food.

“Not much to know. I was an only child. My parents split up when I was young. My grandma is my biggest fan, always telling me how proud she is, and she’s been doing it since high school.”

His eyes light up when he mentions her. It's sweet, and it makes me feel warm and soft inside.

“You guys are close.”

“She raised me herself. Took me in after… well, after a lot of shit went down.”

He doesn’t talk much about his life before basketball. He’s always seemed like the carefree guy who makes it look easy. I never stopped to think he might have as many problems as anyone else behind the quick grin and the flirting.

“So, why don’t you have a real boyfriend to dress up and bring to this thing?”

I arch a brow. “I’ve never met a guy I liked enough to keep.”

“I’m down for this game you’re playing, but you’re doing a helluva dance for people you don’t really like.”

“I never said I didn’t like them. I don’t trust them.”

“What’s the difference? You have to trust the people you like.”

Miles reaches across the table and grabs my Diet Coke. He takes a sip, face contorting. “That is disgusting.”

I grab it back from him, sipping with narrowed eyes until my soda’s gone entirely.

After lunch, we head to a boutique to find Miles some new clothes. The assistant comes over to help. She's making eyes at Miles, and I tell her we have things under control.

I load him up with clothes, our hands brushing."Try these on.”

"Say please." He’s goading me. I think this man gets off on pushing my buttons.

I roll my eyes. "Do it."

The employee eyes me from across the room with admiration and envy as Miles disappears into the changing room.

I’ve never spent this much time with him, certainly not just the two of us.

He’s maddening, but our banter is slightly addictive.

I pace outside the changing room, waiting for him to come out. My mind is racing with thoughts of him in those clothes, wondering how they'll fit.

“What are you wearing?” he asks me through the door.

“I have a few outfits picked out.”

“What about that dress from the party the other night? With the stockings.”

“It was a Halloween costume,” I say.

“So… no Dorothy role-playing.”

I snort. “Storybook characters do it for you?”

“You say that like it’s a red flag.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Beige at most. Tell me you don’t have any kinks.”

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