Page 35 of Foolish Games

“How do you know so much about this?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.

“What can I say, I’m a dating expert.”

She feigns shock. “You’ve loved someone other than yourself?”

“Who said anything about love?”

“Okay, seriously,” she says, crossing her arms to mirror my pose. “How does this work? And before you say something all… Sebastian… I’m not sleeping with you, so don’t make a joke that I don’t know how sex works.”

“We’ll see.”

“See what?” she demands. “If Chaz was right and I suck in bed?”

“Hey, I didn’t say it,” I protest, holding up both hands.

“But you believe him, don’t you?”

I pat my thigh with my fingers. “Only one way to find out.”

“For the hundredth time, we’re not fucking,” she says, grinding her teeth in irritation.

I just smirk at her. “Sure, we’re not.”

“You’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met,” she huffs.

“And yet, here you are, begging to spend more time with me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“If you say so.”

She takes a breath and blows it out, then seems to collect herself. “So, let’s establish a set of ground rules. We have to convince people we’re dating, which means you have to act like a boyfriend, not a manwhore. How about you walk me to all my classes, except when you have to run across campus to the football field of course. I’ll sit with you at lunch. We need to send each other at least one note per day. And you can carry my books.”

I snort. “What do you think this is, 1950? It has to be believable. No one would buy that shit from me. They’ll know something’s up.”

One sentence from me, and she’s back to giving me her withering glare. “Because you’d never be a gentleman?”

“No,” I say, chuckling. “I’m not going to turn into a different person just because I have a girlfriend.”

“Well, you can’t go around collecting girls’ numbers for your little black book.”

“Wait, I have to give up sex? Then you better rethink that whole not-fucking part of the arrangement.”

She sighs. “You can still sleep with girls. Just keep it on the downlow.”

I rub my chin. “So now I’m a cheater?”

“It’s not like you’ve ever been faithful before,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Hey, that’s not fair. I’ve never cheated on anyone.”

“Because you’ve never had a real girlfriend.”

“I’ve had a girlfriend,” I protest. “Lots of them, actually.”

“Of course you have,” she says. “Anyway, you can do your thing, just keep it between you and her. I’ll come to all your football games and hang out with the other guys’ girlfriends.”

“You gonna paint my number on your cheek?” The thought of a girl like her with my jersey number on her face, standing at the game and cheering for me, is intriguing. But there’s still the issue of her brother.

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