Page 43 of Fake Game

“Making warm honey milk.”

I scoff. “I’m not a child.”

He turns around and looks at me over his shoulder briefly. “Who said it was for you?”

My mouth pops open as a flush creeps up my cheeks.

“Kidding. It’ll help you sleep. If you want it?”

My chest sparks briefly, like a match that’s too old to truly catch fire.

“I mean, if you’ve already gone to the trouble.” I try to come off nonchalant.

Looping my phone around my wrist, I pad over to the dimly lit kitchen, hauling myself onto one of the barstools.

Jackson grabs a mug from one of the cabinets and slowly pours the saucepan of milk into it. He turns around, and just when I think he is about to offer it to me, he pauses.

The front of his brows pull together in the slightest crinkle, and I see something close to shock filter through his gaze. After a beat, it’s gone, and he slides the mug across the counter.

“What?”

“You look different.”

My hands halt inches away from the mug and my blood turns to ice. A thousand rocks drop into the depths of my gut. Within mere seconds, I have my hands covering my bare face.

“Oh my Gods.”

“I said different, not ugly.”

“That’s not the point.”

I can’t believe I slipped up.

Through the slight gap between my hands, I see him come to rest his hip on the edge of the island. He crosses his arms over his chest, but I can’t see his face—I can’t see his reaction.

Self-consciousness eats away at me like hungry piranhas trapped in an aquarium. I was so caught up in sneaking out to grab my phone that it didn’t even click that I’d removed my Deer mask.

Jackson’s knuckles knock against my own. “Deer. What are you doing?”

“Hiding.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t have any makeup on.” I don’t afford him any more of an explanation, not when it sounds…silly.

It feels like a million bees are buzzing under my skin as panic begins to take root. He’s going to see the truth I hide beneath my carefully painted lies. All my fears will be written in the hazel color of my eyes, the crystal blue barrier no longer hiding me. It’s hard to pretend when you’re practically naked.

“Your milk’s going to get cold.”

“I like cold milk.”

He lets out a sigh. “I’m not looking at you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

I crack a peek between two of my fingers, and sure enough, he has turned his back to me. It still feels like a thousand needles are being pricked into my skin, but they’re blunt needles now.

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