Page 46 of Fake

Nathan pulls his phone out of his pocket to read, “Serial dater Nathan West adds another girl to his lineup—and she’s a little different from the rest.” He rolls his eyes and puts the device on the table. “I promise you, it’s better if you don’t pay attention.”

“That’s not bad, though.” I smile, curious about the rest of the article, though I’m sure my best friend made me sound ten times better than I am. “I don’t mind being a little different.”

“That’s what I said the first time Fallon Mae put out an article about me. ‘That’s not so bad. It’s almost complimentary.’ Everything went downhill from there. I should have warned you about the possibility of being in the media before I asked you to pretend to date me.”

“It’s okay, Nathan. It really is. I was aware of the risks.”

Mostly because this particular risk comes in the shape of a close friend, but I’ll explain that uncomfortable little coincidence later, after I’ve told her to stop talking about him on her blog and he’s less angry. Bringing it up now feels…complicated.

We finish dinner and he pays the bill, then stops to chat with his aunt and uncle. They’re the kind of people who feel like sunshine, like Mason, like Angela. I lean close to Nathan just to be close to them, wondering if I’ll ever feel like sunshine for someone else.

Nathan says his goodbyes, then walks me to his car, one hand placed firmly on my lower back as he always does. Over the last few weeks, I’ve grown used to the warmth of his palm, the gentle pressure, the intimacy of his touch.

I know I shouldn’t like it.

But I do.

A lot.

We step into a glorious evening and Nathan slides his palm from my back to take my hand. The moon is full and the air is warm, the breeze caressing my skin as it moves through my hair.

“This is my favorite time of day,” I say, watching the stars shimmer and shine. “When it’s dark out but the energy is high. Expectant. There’s no pressure to be or do or conform, but there’s this…anticipation…like anything could happen. One minute, you’re living your life and the next, everything’s different.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. Then another. One more and I start to feel judged. Why did I think Nathan would care about my favorite time of day? What’s more, why do I want to share that bit of myself with him? This relationship is transactional. It’s not real. Getting emotionally involved is a mistake.

But then he stops, tugs my hand to turn me around, then pulls me close, slipping one arm around my waist and nuzzling my nose with his. The look in his eyes is bright, like the moon, filled with promises and anticipation, and maybe he cares more than I thought.

Maybe this isn’t an act.

Maybe he’s falling.

And I’m falling.

Maybe we aren’t faking it.

Maybe, somewhere along the line, this started to become real.

“What are you?—”

Nathan tips my chin and brushes his lips to mine. I return the kiss, helpless, hopeless, tentative then insistent. I grip his back as he cups the nape of my neck, his tongue teasing my lips, then meeting my own. He tastes of whiskey but feels like fire, ready to devour me until there’s nothing left but smoke and ash and this one perfect moment.

I groan, relaxing into his strong embrace. Humidity hangs in vaporous clouds around us, softening the moonlight. Crickets chirp and someone opens the door to the bar, letting a rush of laughter escape before silence descends around us.

This is another one of those things I don’t want to like.

But I do. Oh, but I do.

His touch is strong yet gentle, confident without being demanding. His tongue dances in luxurious circles and I’m melting. Relenting. Walls come down and barriers shift. Our kiss is filled with the anticipation of endless possibilities, matching the energy of the night, without pressure or expectation. My nipples pebble and my core clenches and I was so not prepared for how much I like kissing Nathan West.

This isn’t fake. The attraction is real. His. Mine. I’m losing control of this entire situation and…

A throat clears beside us. “Wow, Nathan. In a parking lot? Classy.”

Nathan freezes, pulls back a fraction of an inch, his hand still cupping the nape of my neck as he turns to grin sheepishly at his cousin Angela and her husband whose name I’ve completely forgotten.

“Oh, Angela…” Nathan says with a sarcastic chuckle. “I’m feeling genuinely sorry for Garrett.”

Ah. Yes. Garrett. I commit the name to memory while Angela furrows her brows and leans into her husband.

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