Page 4 of Hard to Fake

My fingers dig into the muscles of his back.

It’s easy to forget how freaking huge he is. Six-four and all of it muscled.

Most of the men I grew up with and went to school with liked to control women with their family name or their trust fund.

This guy literally picked me up and is carrying me through the water as if I weigh nothing.

I don’t know what kind of Princess Bride shit this is, but I was not prepared. There’s a heat starting somewhere deep in my stomach.

Stupid pro athlete.

“Miles!” Aliya rushes up to him when he sets me down on the shore on my feet, her dark hair swinging in a shiny curtain. “I can’t believe you did that. What a hero!”

“Do you have a sweater? A blanket?” he asks her, his attention still on me.

“I’m fine,” I protest.

“Brock says she’s fine, Miles.”

“It’s Brooke,” I start, but I’m distracted by his hands on my upper arms.

“We’re almost done here, then I’ll be ready to go…” Aliya continues as if I hadn’t spoken. There’s impatience now and a distracted smile.

I look between them and realize the truth.

He’s here for her.

Because he’s a massive basketball star and she’s a model.

Beautiful people doing beautiful people things.

“It was her own fault,” Aliya continues. “She was supposed to be a shoot assistant.”

The embarrassment dials up to humiliation.

On my own social media, I’m in front of a camera, contributing to the fantasy life of being a twenty-something without a care in the world except for curating an enviable designer shoe collection and snapping pics of the latest appetizer at a hot new restaurant with my friends.

Today, I was carrying cameras and checking lighting.

My teeth chatter again. “I need to get back to work.” I pull out of Miles’s grasp and look around for some equipment that needs wrangling.

“You’re fired,” Giovanni declares. “I cannot have assistants disrupting my shoot.”

I wring out the bottom of my sweater, water hitting the deck with a stream of plinks. Indignation edges into my despair.

“Aliya, I need to drive Brooke home,” Miles says before I can respond.

“You what?!” We blurt it at the same time.

Aliya’s penciled brows drag together as though she’s calculating whether she could shove me back in the water and drown me.

I trail him to the parking lot.

“I have a car,” I call after him.

“I’ll have it dropped off later. Give me your keys.”

“No way.”

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