Page 83 of The Fake Dating War

We’ll blame the fact that we’re in this death trap for our behavior. I’m not unconvinced gas fumes haven’t made me feel this way. How it would be everything if I could pull her onto my lap any time I wanted. That she needs to be mine to pet, and stroke, and joke with, and tease, and make laugh. That any tears—however much they ruin me to see—are my responsibility to tend after.

Time loses meaning with us cuddled in this seat, touching each other. Suddenly, I’m not wanting this precious nightmare to end.

But it does.

“Are you staying on or going out?” barks a loud voice.

The driver looms above us. Around us, the bus is empty. Apparently, we’d arrived at some point and everyone already left, likely assuming we’d follow behind being the last ones sitting at the end.

Patel jumps off my lap. “Yes, we’re going out!”

She makes a rush for the exit, stopping only to grab a water bottle from one of the coolers near the front. Instead of drinking it, she presses the ice-cold bottle to her forehead as she hops off the bus.

I take longer to get up, mentally trying to slap some sense back into myself. We’re pretending. It’s Patel. None of this is real.

Outside, I find her standing at the mouth of a hiking trail.

“They must have gone this way,” she says. “But there’s so much mud. How did everyone get across? Though I see their footsteps. And I hear voices, so it’s not like they are very far off.”

She’s testing the ground with the edge of her heel and bracing her shoulders as if ready to sprint across the trail.

I don’t let her.

46

REEMA

He picks me up like it’s nothing, and I’m carried over the mud by Coleman, bridal-style. My hands go around his neck. “This is not necessary!”

“Yes, but we can’t ruin your fancy shoes.”

“I got them on sale. Found them in the discount bin. I had to glue a piece of the heel down, but it’s good as new now.”

The tops of my cheeks heat with embarrassment. Why did I just admit to DIY-ing my heels? I shouldn’t have said that. I brace myself for mockery, but it doesn’t come.

He is grinning at me. “Nice work.”

The appreciation in his tone is obvious.

I—like it. A lot. But dwelling on how Coleman is probably a paragon of fiscal responsibility is dangerous. If he starts talking about his retirement plan, I might wrap my legs around his waist and grind myself on his crotch. When I was younger, artfully gelled hair and bulgy muscles got me going. If a man could play a guitar, I’d puddle more. With Harry, it was his oozing charm that I found attractive.

At thirty-five, my legs go boneless for security. If I ever try the whole love thing again, I want a partner I can wholeheartedly trust. Someone who doesn’t pull me down, but lifts me up.

The irony is not lost on me that Coleman is literally carrying me right now.

And if the bus driver hadn’t yelled at us minutes earlier, I’d have done something really stupid. Like kiss him, not caring whether relatives were around to see. Kiss him because I wanted to kiss him. Kiss him because I couldn’t stand not kissing him in that moment.Fuck,this isn’t good.

I need to remember this isn’t real. Ican’tforget that. It’s a game that finishes when the reception is over tomorrow, and after that we go back to work and pretend it all never happened, even though it has, and everything I’m feeling for him is a mind-fuck of sneaky desire, and this new, but nameless well of something growing inside me.

I notice Coleman’s breathing has deepened.

“Sorry,” I say in a rush.

“For what? I’m not struggling.” He tosses me slightly into the air and catches me again.

“Stop that,” I shriek.

He chuckles, a smug throaty sound that makes my belly clench.

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