Page 39 of The Misfit

One: His hand is clean.

Two: This isn’t real.

Three: He’s safe.

A low, throaty sound escapes him, and he presses closer. Suddenly, counting doesn’t matter anymore. His mouth moves against mine with devastating precision, like he’s mapped out exactly how to short-circuit my brain.

My gloved hands hover uncertainly until he catches them, placing one on his chest and the other in his hair along his neck. It’s soft and wafting whatever soap he uses. His heartbeat races under my palm, matching the erratic rhythm of my own. The kiss deepens, and I forget about germs, about boundaries, about the fact that this is supposed to be practice. I forget that he’s not really interested in me and that I’m broken and this is all pretend. There’s just Lee, tasting like coffee and the possibility of normal.

When he finally pulls back, his pupils are blown wide, his storm-gray eyes appearing almost black. My lips tingle, and for once, I don’t feel the need to count or clean or cut and run. It’s like I’ve been electrocuted, and all I can do is stand there, trying to find balance.

“Well,” he says, voice rough. “I’d say that was convincing.”

I can only nod, still trying to remember how to form words.

“One more thing.” His hand slides to the back of my neck, possession in every line of his body. “From this moment on, you belong to me. There will be no one else. Not for pretend, not for real. I’m claiming you until we see this through. If another man touches you, looks at you, or even breathes in your direction, I will lose my shit.” His possessive undertone makes me shiver.

It should sound like part of the act, like another rule for our fake relationship.

It doesn’t.It sounds real.

“For three months,” I remind him weakly.

His smile is all predator. “Three months,” he agrees. “Better make them count, Pantry Girl.”

As I watch him gather up his backpack to leave, his words echo in my head:You belong to me.

Four simple words that sound like a threat.

Or a promise. Or both.

What have I just agreed to?

More importantly, why do I want to find out?

TEN

salem

I stare at my reflection,adjusting my black sweater for the third time. It’s new. Ordered in triplicate like all my clothes. Nothing is special about it except for the fact that I haven’t worn it yet. However, it feels different.Dressier.

Don’t ask me how since I have no idea. The soft material skims my curves in a way that makes me look normal. Like the type of girl who could really be dating a guy like Lee.

Fake date, I remind myself. Fake relationship. Fake everything.

“You look beautiful,” Noah comments from the doorway. He’s been watching me pace for ten minutes, counting my steps along with me without realizing it. “What’s got you worried?”

“It’s our first public date,” I say, checking my gloves again. “Everyone will be watching. Judging. Waiting for me to?—”

“Breathe.” He enters the room, careful not to disturb my perfectly arranged belongings. “You’ve got this. And from what you said about your coffee date and the week after, Sterling’s pretty good at handling your …” He waves vaguely at my organizing routine. “Stuff.”

He’s right.The past week of “practice” has been surprisingly … manageable. Lee remembers to sanitize without being asked. Warns me before touching me and never complains when I count, clean, or arrange things.

Then there is the kissing …

No. Do not think about that.

My phone buzzes, and I look at the text message.

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