Page 30 of Fake Game

I haven’t cried yet, and I’m not about to start. Those flood gates are staying locked.

“Hey.”

My lids fly open, and I jerk, spinning around and almost spilling the remains of my coffee in the process.

Jackson stands in the doorway, strong arm propped against the molding. “You look better.”

His gaze burns into me as he slowly looks me up and down, almost like he is trying to memorize every inch of my skin.

“A good night’s sleep will do that.”

And a fresh face of makeup.

I tuck a stray piece of hair behind my ear.

He hums, walking toward me.

I take a step back, but I just bump against the railing.

Jackson comes to a stop next to me, resting his forearms on the glass as he looks out across the city. His elbow is only an inch away from my own, and I can feel an electric energy vibratingbetween us. It is like little sparks are jumping off and hitting my skin, as if we can’t help but be connected.

I turn around, placing some space between our bodies and mimic his gaze, looking out onto the city skyline.

It’s odd to think that the man next to me is the same one who came bursting into my apartment last night.

The man with me now is the Jackson I’ve come to know; the one who speaks few words and is stoic and grumpy. The fire blazing in his eyes last night was like nothing I’d ever seen before. The control and dominance in his voice had my toes curling, and it makes me curious if maybe he’s like me—if maybe he hides more beneath the surface.

“Sooo,” I drag out, attempting to fill the silence.

“So?” His voice is deep in contrast with my own as it drawls the vowel out.

I grit my teeth together before taking a sip of my unfortunately plain coffee.

Gods, why did he have to make it so difficult sometimes?

“Whatcha been up to?”

His right brow quirks up and his eyes flick to me briefly, giving me a once over. Then he just shrugs. “Worked out. Ate. Gamed.”

“Riveting,” I deadpan.

“It’s more than you can say, Sparkles.”

My lips pucker on the nickname as my hands tighten on my mug.

What a frustrating man.

“Well, I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

This time he turns to face me, and it’s everything I can do to keep my focus on the skyline.

“You can’t seriously be thinking of going back to your apartment?”

“Maybe.”

Honestly, now that I’ve left, I have no desire to go back. Sure, most—well, all—of my stuff is still there, but the thought of stepping back into the place where I’ve had my privacy completely violated sends a tsunami of unease through my gut.

My rose-tinted glasses have cracked, and there is no way for me to think of my apartment without seeing all the dangers that truly lurk in the shadows.

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