Page 11 of Don't Fall For Your Fake Boyfriend

Willow

The way Brock was touching me tonight makes me feel like he really does like me. But I know he doesn’t. Not really. I mean, this is all fake, right?

So why does my tummy tingle every time his hand traces down my cheek? The way he kissed me didn’t feel fake at all.

But it was.

Oh my god.

He’s been drinking. Yes, that’s it.

Brock isn’t into me. He’s drunk—like plastered—and here I am telling him I want people to think I’m into BDSM.

Oh god.

How embarrassing.

We pretended to head up to our room to keep his family and our friends guessing, but now I think it’s a stupid idea. I know Anya and Hartford are going to ask me about sexy times, and I will have nothing for them.

I swear when Brock was touching me it felt so so real.

I guess he deserves some sort of Academy Award for best acting, because the man can put on a show.

Brock and I have never gotten along. Even now as we wait for the elevator his breathing is getting on my nerves. Why does he have to breathe so sexy?

I cross my arms over my chest. “You put on quite the show back there.”

He studies me for a moment and then gives me this cocky grin. “I told you this plan would work.”

I want to stomp my foot and smack him across his perfectly chiseled face. I want to pinch him, and throw my high heel at him. I want to slam my fists against his solid chest. Instead I say, “Well, you sure fooled everyone.” I turn away from him. “I’m going for a walk.”

“Wait. We’re supposed to be having sex.”

I want to cry, because my body betrays me and actually wants to go upstairs with him and talk him into having sex with me. But this is Brock. Brock Atwood. Never in my life did I ever think I’d get it on with Brock. “I need to clear my head.”

His face tilts slightly. “Really?”

“Yes, Brock. I’m not tired and the thought of sitting upstairs with you in our room sounds nauseating.” It really doesn’t. The thought of continuing the show we were putting on earlier sounds like the perfect way to end an evening. But again. This is Brock we’re talking about here.

“Yeah. I came here to get drunk and party, not hang out with you for every second of every day. See ya,” he says as the elevator doors open and he steps on.

I huff off in the opposite direction, wanting to find the closest bar. And I want to avoid the Atwood clan.

I head to a different casino entirely, not wanting to get ‘caught’ by anyone. I sneak into the Mandalay Bay resort, and find the nearest bar, order a glass of Chardonnay, and have a seat.

“Thank you,” I tell the bartender, handing over my credit card to start a tab.

A large hand stops me from paying. “I got it,” he says, and I recognize the voice immediately.

“You don’t have to pay for my drink,” I say, turning my nose up at this awful intruder.

Lake blinks at me, his blue eyes growing wide. “Where’s the boyfriend?”

“Back at the room,” I tell him, not really wanting to divulge too much information. I feel like Lake knows when I’m lying and I want to make sure he believes me.

Lake nods, slowly. Like he’s looking for the bullshit. “I see. He really shouldn’t leave his girlfriend unattended at a bar in Vegas.”

“I can fend for myself.”

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