Page 60 of Faking It with the Off-Limits Doctor

Dara isn’t someone who beats around the bush. She wants direct conversation and answers, so I knew she’d call at some point after getting my message. Perhaps it was a little harshly written, but I was angry.

Never write a text or an email when you’re angry. That’s the golden rule, right?

But I wasn’t in any mood to be following rules.

The truth is, I’m too devastated. I just couldn’t face having to talk to her. Partly because I’m still in shock that after all her guilt about lying to everyone else, she had lied to me, and partly because I didn’t want to listen to her excuses.

I know I’m being a hypocrite, but my rational head has compartmentalized what was okay and what wasn’t. We agreed we would tell everyone a great untruth, but we also agreed that no one else could know about our deal. No one. It was just too risky.

Dara had broken that agreement. The lies we told hurt no one, but her lies have certainly hurt me. Mainly because I was finally beginning to trust someone again.

I got back to the apartment yesterday evening, and I’ve been wallowing in my sorrows ever since. This morning, I’m in foul form, and to try and make myself feel better—or deny I’m in any pain at all—I’ve spent the last few hours trying to convince myself that now the deal is done, I don’t need Dara anymore.

It’s not working.

While my head is trying to protect me, my heart is calling me a liar.

At lunchtime, my phone rings. I jump at the sound as I sit in my apartment in silence, my eyes glazed as I look out over the city. When I look at the screen, I heave a sigh.

I really don’t want to talk to anyone right now, but if I don’t answer the first time, Mike will just keep ringing until I do. He knows I don’t work weekends. He also hasn’t quite grasped the concept of people having a life beyond their job.

“Hey,” I say when I answer.

“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal son, or should I say, brother.”

“What do you mean?”

“You are back in the city, aren’t you?”

“How do you know that?” I frown. “Did you bug my phone?”

“Nah. I’m just having you followed everywhere you go, brother.” He chuckles.

I don’t join in like I normally would, and I’m about to press him into telling me how he knows I’m back, when he says, “So, how did it go on Friday? I thought you would have called and let me know.”

I’ve rung him a few times over the last few weeks. I didn’t tell him everything, but he knows I hired a chef, and he also knows that for just the evening Jack was visiting, she was going to pretend to be my girlfriend. Mike had found this highly amusing and had mocked me for quite some time. I’m just glad I didn’t tell him the entire story, or I’d never have got him off the phone.

“It went great,” I say, my tone so lackluster I sound like I’m falling asleep. “The deal’s done, and Jack’s coming on board.”

“But?”

My brows come together. “What do you mean, but?”

“You sound like you just won the lottery but you’ve only got a day to live,” Mike quips. “What’s going on?”

“It’s just been a lot of hard work. I’m tired.”

Mike doesn’t say anything for a minute, and then I hear him sigh. “It’s the girl, isn’t it?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on. You know you can’t lie to me, man. You’re my brother, remember?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say.

“Sure,” Mike drawls sarcastically. “I mean you’ve just brokered maybe the biggest deal of your career, and instead of celebrating like a normal person, you’re lounging in your apartment, glaring out the window.”

I sit up and look about me, wondering if he hasn’t snuck into my apartment at some point and put cameras in here.

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