Page 71 of The Fake Dating War

But now I have this.

At least for tonight, I look like I belong next to her.

Her phone starts buzzing on the side table. Someone is trying to reach her.

“Your phone is going off,” I shout.

“Don’t look,” she yells back, through the closed bathroom door.

“Why would I look? It’s probably your sister.”

“Or—it could be my Finder date. The one I was dreaming of. Not you.”

My eyes narrow. So, we’re back at that, I see. I pretend my fingers don’t curl, and flames that definitely aren’t jealousy don’t ignite in my gut. That I’m not trying to crane my head to read her phone screen.

She walks out of the bathroom, not yet dressed. She’s here to grab her phone, except mid-step after grabbing it, she glances at me and drops it to the ground.

Her mouth parts as she takes me in.

I smirk, absolutely fucking delighted. “You like this outfit on me, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

I’d believe her if she didn’t immediately run back into the bathroom. Looking down, I examine myself. Whoever her cousin’s husband is, I’m going to find him tonight so I can buy this from him. And so I can ask for the shop where he bought it.

They have a lifelong customer.

Whatever it takes to keep her looking at me like that.

Whatever keeps Patel on her toes, is what I mean.

Because it’s a tactical advantage.

My smug pride lasts until she comes out.

Her outfit was confidently loud on the hanger, but on her it sears the senses. I’m holding my breath, lost at where to look. If I get drowned by the oranges, I’ll think how nicely they set off her golden-brown skin. If I look at the dangling jewels, I’ll imagine her shining under the dark sky, pulling attention from the stars no matter how much they try to compete. There’s also a certain transparency to the arms, and it’s not even indecent, but I can’t stop staring and thinking of more ridiculous star metaphors.

When she faces me, my mind blanks.

Her eyelids are shimmery.

I’m at a loss for words. If anything, I’m reduced to a rudely put question that flicks through my head.

How can you do this to me?

I should tell her she looks…

She looks…

Enchanting.

Thankfully, Patel is too bothered by how late we are running, that she doesn’t notice me gaping at her like I’ve got a fucking head injury.

“Let’s go!” she yells, impatiently rushing out the door.

41

JAKE

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