Page 70 of Fake Game

“Yeah, but you didn’t have to come check on me.”

“True.”

“Except you did because you’re a nice person.”

“I thought you said I was the grumpiest person you’ve ever known.”

“Can’t you let me give you a compliment?”

“No.”

She lets out a small laugh. One of her arms unfurls and inches out to wrap around my waist. A thousand lights zap against my skin at the contact. I steel myself as she snuggles closer, unable to ignore the way her breasts are pushing up against my bare chest.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Come on, Jackson. You’re here to comfort her, not to fuck her.

I gulp, my Adam’s apple feeling like a thirty-pound rock as I try to center my thoughts. My dick really needs to get the memo that now is seriously not the fucking time.

Except, it seems like the world is hell-bent on making this hard for me.

Deer shifts, bringing her knees higher to her chest, which causes them to graze against my cock in the process. She lets out a sleepy sigh while I stifle a groan.

Against my better judgement, I let my arm slide down her body until my hand stops at the small of her back. I’m tempted to let it linger lower but stop myself before I do something I can’t take back. Just being in here, being in bed with her, is too much.

I shouldn’t be holding her like this.

I shouldn’t be doing any of this.

She’s vulnerable right now, broken. Who am I to take advantage of that?

I’m not that sort of guy.

We’re barely even friends.

I look down at her.

Fuck.

I’m so fucked.

EIGHTEEN

DEER

“Where would you like this, miss?”

“In the bedroom, please.”

I smile at the mover even though it feels like I face-planted into a bee’s nest. My cheeks are all chubby and pushing against my eyes as I try to make sure the grin doesn’t constipated.

I’d like to think I managed to cover up most of the blotchy redness from my tears with the eighty-dollar foundation I slapped on my skin at the ass crack of dawn, but there’s nothing I can do about the puffiness other than sticking my face in an ice bucket.

I don’t hate myself enough to do that.

Yet.

“All right, that’s the last of the boxes.” Sydney breaches the doorway, eyes glued to a clipboard in her hand. “Are you fine with them unpacking and organizing, too?”

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