Page 31 of The Fake Boyfriend Fiasco

Huh. Awkward.

“Come on, Nik,” Kieran yelled. He got louder after a few drinks, it seemed. “What the fuck, man? Bring her in!”

“How are you dating a footballer and you’ve never played football?” demanded a blonde to Aria’s left.

“Well, I doubt Posh has played, either,” she said defensively.

“Honey,” the woman smirked. “You’re not exactly—” Then she caught the expression on Aria’s face and suddenly discovered the benefits of silently studying the floor.

Behind her, Nik chuckled softly. He traced the thorny roses climbing her bicep and said, “You realise this state of affairs cannot continue?”

Something inside her relaxed at the unmistakable sound of his smile. Despite his probing questions about her ex, he wasn’t… upset. Not that she’d care if he was, since he had no right to be.

Except she totally fucking would, because she was a complete sap.

“The football thing, you mean? You’re not going to make me play, are you?”

“Of course, I’m going to make you play,” he laughed. “Good God, chrysí mou. What do you take me for?”

“Stop talking, you two.” Georgia interjected. “Nik, it’s your turn.”

He sighed. “Alright, relax. Never have I ever…” He smiled as he ran his knuckles over Aria’s collarbone. “Never have I ever gotten a tattoo.”

Most of the room drank at that one. It was the first time Aria had really considered Nik’s lack of ink—usually, when she saw him naked, she was more concerned with his body than his unadorned skin. But suddenly the perfection of such a big, bare canvas hit her.

“I think you should drink twice,” he said, his finger circling the little octopus above her knee.

She snorted. “Nice try.” But she kind of invalidated those words when she did as he’d suggested, taking the shot he’d just poured for himself. “You should get a tattoo.” Aria wasn’t in the business of telling people what they should and shouldn’t do with their bodies—that was the opposite of her attitude, actually—but the words leapt out anyway.

“You think it would look good?”

“No. Well, yes, but that’s not why I…” she trailed off, because explaining her reasoning felt kind of awkward. She hadn’t said it because he’d look good. She’d said it for the same reason he wanted her to play football.

He seemed to grasp that without her finishing an impossible sentence. His smile widened, becoming almost shark-like, and he said, “So give me a tattoo.”

Aria blinked, certain that she was experiencing some kind of alcohol-induced, auditory hallucination. It had been a while since she’d been that drunk, but these people went hard. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious. You’re a tattoo artist.”

She threw up her hands. “We’re in Marbella, Nik.”

“But you can tattoo anywhere. The way people do when they’re learning, right, before they get a gun or whatever—”

“A machine. Call it a machine. And if you’re talking about stick-and-pokes, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You can’t do it?”

“Well, sure, I can do it—”

“Then it’s settled. Tomorrow.” He kissed her cheek. “Try not to kill me.”

“How the hell would I kill you?”

“I’m sure you could find a way.” That dragged a laugh out of her. The sound was cut off by a gasp when he moved without warning, pulling them both to their feet. She looked around the circle and realised that, while they’d been talking, the game had devolved into random drinking and copious make out sessions. Huh. “Upstairs?” Nik asked, packing a thousand words into just one.

She nodded.

Then swallowed a scream as he picked her up.

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