Page 74 of Hard to Fake

Patrons buzz excitedly, the chimes tinkle on the door of each store, and a bus engine rumbles as it drops off visitors while we walk from the parking lot to the hotel.

The air tastes like wood smoke and peppermint, making me think of hot chocolate.

I feel Miles’s arm wrap around my waist protectively as we make our way through the throng of girls toward the lodge that’s sorority HQ for the weekend.

A few women stop me to say hi, and I introduce Miles.

He grins, dazzling them.

“Wow, you’re a professional athlete,” one of them gushes.

“How tall are you?”

“What’s it like to win a world championship?”

I look up at him, willing him silently to be brief.

“Yes.” “Very.” “Great, thank you.” On the drive up, I reminded him to answer in monosyllables.

“How long have you been dating?”

My radar goes up. This is in the yellow-flag zone of questioning.

“It’s new,” I start, but he weighs in.

“When you know, you know.”

I glare.

Overkill.

Selling it, he mouths back.

We took Miles’s Range Rover, talked about lots of things.

Not the way he kissed the hell out of me. Or the fact that he outed me to my brother.

That part hasn’t come up.

The thing is, our bickering feels good—as good as the attraction between us that has him touching me, holding the door when I get back in the car after a rest stop, teasing me for my taste in music. It distracts me from everything that’s on the line this weekend.

"Here is your agenda for the day. First up, we have fun activities. Then dinner. Then a special ceremony after,” the sister running orientation explains as we reach the front of the line.

I browse the agenda as we switch to the check-in line for our rooms.

Miles peers over my shoulder. “You forgot to buy me pink outfits.”

When we reach the front desk, I give them my name.

"We have you in a queen room," the agent says, taking my credit card.

I blink. "I asked for two queens.”

Someone else is trying to talk to my date, and he’s not listening to my conversation. We're surrounded by people, and it feels suspicious to argue when Miles is supposed to be my boyfriend.

The desk agent furrows her brows, tapping at her keyboard. "I don't see that in our system." Another minute ticks by, and she shakes her head. “We could ask another guest if they’ll switch?”

And let them know Miles and I aren’t really together? No way.

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