Page 86 of Hard to Fake

Tomorrow, I need to decide what to do—about the contract, about the sorority, all of it.

But not tonight.

"Why did you do it?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He shifts. “Do what?”

"Come to this reunion with me.”

His hand traces slow circles on my back, one after another."You needed someone. I wanted to be that person."

I turn my head to look at him. My chest aches.

Miles watches me for a moment, his eyes searching mine in the dark. "You deserve to have someone in your corner. Not because you’re smart or beautiful or kind, although you are all of those things. Because you were born worthwhile, and nothing you or anyone else does or says can change that."

That kind of caring can be just as easily reversed, a voice reminds me. Kevin dropped me with zero warning after years together, even after I covered for his fuck-up. My mom decided to end her ongoing investment in me based on a single photo.

But I feel a flicker of hope that it's possible for someone to care about me for who I am.

So, tonight I let myself believe.

21

MILES

It’s strange how waking up with another person feels so…

Personal.

The light shafting through the window behind me dances across her parted lips.

You notice details you never thought you would. Like how soft her skin is—softer than the silk pillowcase under her head—where my thumbs brush her sides under her sleep shirt.

At some point, my leg got threaded between hers, or she wound hers around mine.

Her dark lashes twitch against her cheeks as she dreams.

Her full lips part.

I want to lean in, slide my tongue between them like I would’ve done if we’d had ten more seconds in the closet before getting busted.

Last night was about comfort.I wanted to be there for her when she was going through a shitty time.

This morning, our bodies twined together under the sheets, the scent of her filling my nostrils…

Nothing about this is comforting.

I study her face, taking in every detail: the curve of her nose, the arch of her eyebrows, the way her hair falls across her forehead.

The room is quiet except for the sound of our breathing and the faint rustle of the sheets as we shift. When she sighs, a little puff of contentedness, my hand itches. The only way to relieve it is to move, tracing the curve of her waist, the gentle slope of her hip.

I hear a sound from outside, a door slamming.

Her body shifts slightly, but her breathing remains even, and her grip on me only tightens.

Now she's pressing herself against my thigh as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I’m already hard, because hello, morning. But even if I wasn’t, I would be from her closeness, from the way she smells.

---