Page 37 of The Fake Out Flex

My heart stutters at the unexpected closeness, at the unexpected touch, at the unexpectedly sultry smile he's aiming my way.

Perfect fake date material, I remind myself. That's all.

"Thanks again for doing this," I tell him as we make our way out.

"No need to thank me," he says. "I've been looking forward to this for a long time."

Well, this is a fizzer.

"You okay, Evie? Can I get you something else to drink?"

I throw a glance at the four barely-touched glasses on the table in front of me. Fraser, in total perfect-date mode, got me every one of those drinks, but nothing is hitting the spot.

I feel restless.

And agitated.

And like I'm the world's biggest fool.

Again.

No amount of alcohol can fix that.

"No. I'm fine. Thank you."

"All right." Fraser bumps his foot gently against mine under the table. "We'll resume sitting here in stone-cold silence thinking about ways we can plot our revenge on jerkface that don't see us getting twenty-five to life behind bars. Oops." He lifts his fingers to his lips. "Did I say that out loud?"

That manages to draw a tiny smile out of me. "For the record, that's not what I'm doing."

"What sort of name is Bryce anyway?" he continues. "Do you think he was actually meant to be called Bruce, but someone at the hospital accidentally typed y instead of u?"

I bring my napkin to my lips to hide my growing smile. "Stop it."

Fraser stops, his expression turning serious. "Well, what is it, Evie? You haven't been yourself all day. Tell me what's wrong."

"How do you know something's wrong?"

He takes a sip of his whiskey. "Because I've got eyes."

Great. I'm that obvious.

I thought I'd been doing a good job concealing whatever weird funk I fell into the moment we got here.

I wished the bride and groom all the best, and, surprisingly, it wasn't even that awkward.

I mingled with the other guests who, in all honesty, were more interested in talking to Fraser and taking a selfie with him than they were in me.

I've been making pleasant conversation with the people at our table, listening and nodding politely as we somehow veered to the topic of foot health and Mr. Mariano's horrifying story about how he names his corns.

The only thing I haven't done is take Fraser up on his offers to dance.

Yes, offers.

Plural.

He's asked seven times, which I'm sure he's only doing to fulfill his date obligation and make it look like we're a couple, as opposed to what we really are—a pity date called in as a favor by his best friend to help said best friend's loser sister out of a jam.

Besides, I'm a terrible dancer. The last thing I need is someone recording me and earning myself a second viral moment.

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