Page 32 of The Fake Boyfriend Fiasco

“You have got to stop doing this,” she huffed as he strode from the room.

“Why?”

“Because…” Well, actually, that was a good question. Why?

“Don’t you like it?” he prompted.

“It doesn’t matter if I like it—”

“I really think it does.” He climbed the first set of stairs, jostling her only slightly. The bouncing must have shaken up her brain, because she finally thought of a response.

“You can’t carry me up three flights of stairs and halfway across the house,” she said with certainty.

“Is that really what you think?”

She sighed. “You’re about to destroy your knee just to prove a point, aren’t you?”

“My knee is fine, moro mou. But I appreciate the concern.”

She swatted his shoulder. “I already told you to cut the sexy shit.”

“You’d take my mother tongue from me?” he tutted sadly. “You English. You think you rule the world.”

Was she laughing so hard because of the alcohol fizzing through her veins, or was this a different sort of intoxication? Aria decided not to think about it too much.

By the time they reached the final set of stairs, their steady stream of banter had faded, and Nik’s expression had become slightly ferocious. “You’re quiet,” she snickered.

He flashed her a mock glare. “Excuse me, madam. I’m conserving oxygen.”

Her giggle sounded distant, as if it was coming from someone else. She felt oddly lightheaded as she raised a finger to trail along the line of his jaw. “You’re all scratchy.”

Nik looked down at her with something that might’ve been alarm. The expression softened into a smile a second later. “You’re wasted,” he accused, humour dancing through his words.

“You’re pretty,” she shot back, tapping the slight bump in the bridge of his nose. Wait—that wasn’t how arguments were supposed to go, was it? Ah, well. Too late now.

“You’re pretty, too.” His voice was like the warmth of a campfire on a cold night.

“Well,” she hedged, “I don’t know if I’d say pretty—”

“You’re right.” He reached their room and nudged the door open with his foot. “The first time I saw you, I thought you were striking.”

“Yes,” she agreed enthusiastically as he put her on the bed. He sat her up against the pillows, but she flopped sideways. That felt better. “Striking!”

“I have since readjusted my opinion, though.” He was leaning over her, fiddling with her… ear? What an odd thing to fiddle with. There were far more useful places he could touch. “I think ‘stunning’ suits you better.”

Oh, he was taking out her hoop earrings. Good idea. Goooood idea. They were very big.

“Or we could go with a classic,” he went on, “and say ‘beautiful’. You’re definitely beautiful.” He took out the second hoop and laid them both on the bedside table. His hand went to the zip at the side of her dress, then stopped. “Do you want to take this off?”

“I do,” she nodded. Nod, nod, nod. She reached for the zip, tugged, fumbled. “You do it. And keep telling me how great I am.”

He laughed and sat down beside her, easing the zip down carefully. “Alright. I like the clothes you wear.”

“Because they are tiny.”

“Because they’re outrageous,” he corrected. “But you wear them so casually. If anyone else had walked into that club tonight wearing fluffy, green high heels, they’d have looked ridiculous. But you just looked like you.” He pulled her up into a sitting position, resting her back against his chest. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I feel great,” she said. And she did. Very warm and tingly inside, from all these very nice words. Also, the booze. “I just got so tired all at once.”

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