Page 49 of The Match Faker

When we arrived, I laid my shoes out so I could survey my options. Now this stable of shoes is an effective armory. I pick up a runner and chuck it at him. He catches it, then uses it to block the high heel. He jumps over the bed to the other side of the room.

“Jasmine.” He cuts himself off, and his next words are much quieter. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Fury snakes its way up my spine. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Keep your voice down.”

I’ve never heard him speak in such a concerned tone. It’s almost as if he actually cares about something enough to have an emotional reaction as opposed to his usual amused apathy.

Pulse pounding at my throat, I take a deep breath and focus on getting a handle on this rage. Not because he told me to. But because this isn’t like me. I’ve never been this angry before, never thrown things at my partner.

Except, he’s not even my partner. Not in the real way. Not in the way I can’t believe I entertained for even a moment and not in the way we faked for his parents downstairs.

“Be honest.” I gasp. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

He blinks, frozen, the color draining from his face. “Oh.” He slumps onto the edge of the mattress, hunched back to me. “So, you know?” His voice is muffled.

I round the bed to make him face me. Coward. “Yes. Please tell me. What do I know, Nick? If that even is your name?” I suck in a harsh breath and let it out. If I’m not careful, I’ll reach screeching levels again soon.

“You heard my entire family call me by my name or some variation of it, of course my name is Nick.”

Irritation pricks at me. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” He frowns up at me.

“Don’t be all…cute.”

“I’m nottryingto be cute,” he argues, gesturing to himself, like it just comes naturally.

“Listen, chucklebutt.” I wield my index finger at his face like a knife.

“Chucklebutt?” He laughs, but stifles the sound by rubbing his hand over his mouth when he realizes his mistake. He eyes the window above the desk like he’s wondering how many boneshe’ll break if he jumps out of it. “I’m sorry,” he says, so quiet I can barely hear it over the blood pounding in my ears.

“Okay. And?”

“Could you sit down?” he asks, dark eyes pleading.

“No.” I cross my arms over my chest.

He stalks across the room and pulls out his desk chair. Dropping into it, he holds out a hand, silently offering the bed to me. “I just want to make sure you can’t throw anymore shoes at my head.”

I am not going to apologize for that, but I sit.

He holds out his hands, a pacifying gesture, like he’s animal control and I’m the coyote that’s just wandered out of Sunnybrook Park. Now that I’m sitting, the anger, the adrenaline, leaves my body in a whoosh. I’m cold again. A little dizzy.

After a few silent moments, he stands and shuffles into the adjoining bathroom. He turns on the tap and a few moments later comes back with a glass of water.

At first, feeling spiteful, I don’t take it, but my mouth is dry, and maybe the shock of the cold water will calm the way my body is vibrating.

Instead of doing the polite Canadian thing and thanking him, I say, “I want an explanation.”

He nods, sits in the chair again. “When you introduced yourself at the bar, I honestly just thought you were…kinda weird?” He grimaces, his gaze full of apology. “But you’re…” He throws his hand in my direction, not looking at me. “Beautiful. And you were asking me to hang out with you, and that shit with your ex?”

Tears spring to my eyes, sharp and sudden. Dammit. I divulged those details to a person I thought I “knew.” A man who was at least vetted by a business concerned with my personal safety.

I thought I was a fool before. When Mitchell dumped me, when he got engaged a month later. I had to walk around in a world where anyone who knew me knew that I was so inconsequential to Mitchell that he didn’t even bother to end things in person. The world knew that I was so meaningless to him that I didn’t even deserve his fidelity.

As I gape at Nick, my heart cracks wide open. This is exponentially worse.

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