Page 69 of Gilded Fake

“No,” he says. “I’m not afraid of hard work.”

“You sure?” I ask. “Because I don’t think you’ve ever had to work for anything in your whole life.”

“That’s not true.”

“I’m not saying your life has been easy, at least not since I’ve known you. But work for something you really wanted? I don’t know.”

“I want things.”

“And you get them,” I point out. “Everything comes to you. You have money. A name. Looks. A girlfriend who adores you and would do anything in the world for you. Hell, you didn’t even have to propose—at least not that you remember.”

“Doesn’t count,” he says. “That’s not something I wanted.”

“Even getting your status back,” I go on. “You didn’t fight for that and win your place on the throne again. You held on until fortunes changed, and the elites placed the crown back on your head.”

He grins. “Why fight for something when you can wait for lady luck to smile on you again? I knew I’d have to get a winning hand again if I stayed in the game long enough.”

“So you agree with me.”

“Nah,” he says. “I worked my ass off to survive the past few years. That’s gotta count for something.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “It does. And like Harper says, maybe you just have to find something worth fighting for.”

“I think I found her,” he says quietly.

Our eyes meet, and the sparkling crackle of electricity in the air is almost palpable, like the air is charged before a lightning strike. He leans in, and I let my eyes flutter closed, my breath catching as his lips skim over mine. I have to brace a hand on the tailgate beside me so I don’t topple off it into the pit below.

After a second I pull back, clearing my throat and stirring my drink. “Even if it doesn’t come easy?” I ask, finding myself holding my breath for his answer.

His fingers move over to cover mine, ink swirling over his scarred skin, the stump of his middle finger blunt and terrible. We both turn to stare down at our mismatched hands for a long, silent moment.

“I didn’t choose easy,” he says at last. “I chose this.”

“You know how fucked up I am. After what I did to you…” I trail off, swallowing hard, unable to look at him with the shame swimming inside me. “Do you remember?” I whisper.

“I remember,” he says grimly. “And I guess… I guess I get it. Enough that I’m not pissed about it.”

“You should be,” I say. “It’s worse than what Dixie does. That’s the kind of fucked up I am. Do you really want to be with someone like that?”

“You think I’m not fucked up?”

“But I fucked you up,” I insist, my throat tightening. “What if I hurt you again? It’s not like you just have to fight another guy for me. I don’t want any other guys. But what about when you have to fight me for me? When you have to fight my demons?”

“We’ll fight them together.”

“It’s a lot to ask,” I say. “I’m a mess. That’s probably why there are no other guys to fight off.”

He cracks a grin. “You sure that’s why?”

“Shut up,” I say, giving his foot a playful push with mine.

“Look, I get it,” he says. “We all did what we had to do to survive. We’re all fucked up because of what we’ve done and had done to us. I know that. And I choose to love you anyway—not despite what you did, or because of it, but because I see who you are, Lo. That’s the girl I love. Even when you can’t see her, I do.”

My throat tightens so hard I can’t breathe. How can I be worthy of what he’s giving me, what he’s saying? But maybe that’s what he’s talking about. Maybe the girl I don’t see is worthy. Not the one I was, or the one I’ll become, but the one I am right now, broken and confused and unknowable even to myself.

“I don’t deserve you,” I choke out at last.

“Isn’t that what you meant at prom?” he asks. “You said girls just want someone to love them despite their flaws. I’m your someone, Lo. I see all of you—your sickness and your weakness and your meanness. It’s all part of you. I don’t love you despite it or because of it. I just love you. The whole fucked up package. I want all of it.”

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