Page 6 of Hard to Fake

Miles’s popsicle-chill vibe can lull you into thinking he’s safe, but when he cares about something, he’ll dig in with a stubbornness even my mom would admire.

Being the only daughter of a United States senator sounds like a good deal, especially for someone who enjoys being in the spotlight. What you don’t realize is that it comes with strings. A lot of them.

Especially in our family.

Be intelligent, but not edgy.

Be polite, but not a pushover.

Be presentable, but conservatively so.

Which, according to my mother, was the cause of her voicemail last week that changed everything.

It’s my dirty secret, and I’m not about to share it with anyone, least of all my brother’s gorgeous, rich, popular teammate.

I’m already embarrassed, but confessing why I was there would dial that up to off-the-charts humiliation.

“Don’t look,” I say. I’m not usually self-conscious, but this day has thrown me for a loop.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

With a glance toward Miles to ensure he’s watching the road, I peel off the sweater. The warm air feels like heaven on my bare skin as I tug the sweatshirt over my head. It smells clean and a little like Miles. Once I’ve tugged it down, leaving a pool of fabric around my body, I reach inside to work off my bra.

Who invented these things? I’m half an inch from to dislocating my shoulder.

A few grunts later, I drop the bra in a soggy pile in my lap.

“You want a medal for that performance?” Miles drawls, navigating traffic.

“It’s the least you can do,” I retort.

It’s not though.

He dragged me out of the pond, got himself soaked in the process, and blew off his date to drive me home.

Miles is one of the good guys.

I shove the shirt sleeves up my arms, feeling like the Michelin man from all the wrinkles.

Miles’s gaze flicks over and lands on the stack, my teal lace bra on top. “Lace, huh?”

“Stop it.”

He grins, but his attention stays where it is.

“Um. Miles, the light?—”

“Shit.” He hits the brakes as the yellow switches to red.

I’m tossed forward, the seatbelt lock engaging with a snap across my shoulders.

The last few blocks of the drive pass in silence. Miles pulls up in front of my building without asking for the address.

“Need me to come up to wring your hair out and tuck you in?”

“No, thank you. You’re not the only one with a date tonight,” I announce.

I get the briefest satisfaction of seeing his eyes narrow in a very un-Miles way before I get out of the car and slam the door.

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