Page 22 of The Fake Dating War

“But forms get you going.” The elevator starts going down. “Or is there another reason why you require women to sign the NDAs?” I ask, my tone sweet as candy.

“Obsessed with my bed, are we?”

The retort that springs to my head is a high-pitchedNoor a pithyIn your dreams,but neither is good enough to share. From the corner of my eye, I see Coleman’s mouth curve as if he thinks he’s won.

When the elevator opens, we stalk into the parking lot, side-by-side. After a few moments, I’m surprised he’s still with me. My car isn’t close because I suck at parking, but I’ve seen him reverse his Mercedes into the narrowest spot one-handed. He typically parks at the front, but today his Mercedes is in front of mine on the furthest edge of the lot. I go to my driver’s door and he goes to his. The black shine of his vehicle is comical next to my dull, mud-streaked box of a car.

My hand goes to my door handle. His hand goes to his door handle.

We look at each other.

“Your twin mattress is probably on the floor,” I finally say.

His mouth twists. “King bed, Patel. Custom frame.”

“Unwashed sheets.”

“Dry-cleaned Egyptian cotton.”

I know it’s grossly hypocritical to be judging anyone’s living situation, but for a moment I pretend I’m still Reema Patel in her penthouse.

“One measly pillow,” I predict.

“Four.”

I open my door. “Really? I’m surprised you let them sleep over.”

He laughs and the noise staggers me. It sounds so… male, and deep, and pleased. “Who says anyone is sleeping?”

There’s that flutter springing eagerly to life.No sleeping…That means?—

If you’re not begging for it, I haven’t done my job properly.

Why does that one statement live rent-free in my head? And why now, standing here, am I so breathless? What’s wrong with me? Nothing has changed. This is what we always do. Poke at each other.

He gave you his bagel.

No.I refuse to be pleased by that fact, for if I am, then the bar is literally on the floor for men.

“See something you like, Patel?” Coleman wonders, raising an eyebrow at me.

Shit, I’ve been staring at him, slightly open-mouthed, as if he’s some sort of snack to gobble up. The corners of my face warm.

“Patel is it now?” I call back. “Not Reema?”

The second those words leave my throat, I regret them. What am I doing? Why am I reminding him of last night? It’s as if I’ve thrown fresh blood in the waters. My whole body tenses.

“I hope you don’t expect the same treatment from me,” I desperately add in at the last second. “I don’t even remember your first name, Coleman.”

I’m a liar. A lying liar.

I watch his nostrils flare. “Don’t worry,” he snaps. “That was a momentary lapse in judgement.”

“I’m glad you think so,” I say, forcing my own snappish words out. “It means I don’t need to give you the finger again.”

He yanks his door open and gets in his car. “I don’t know who you’ve been with, but for the record,fingeringwould also be my job.”

Hisjob?

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