Page 1 of Faking It

Chapter 1

Ana

“That skirt looks amazing as fuck on you.”

I turn from the floor-length mirror in my tiny bedroom, smirking at my boyfriend dragging his sleepy form from my bed.

“You like?”

“I love.” His gaze slides downward, an appreciative gleam in his eyes.

“Aww. Thank you, babe—”

“You need to take it off.”

With a playful gasp, I fan at him as he approaches. “Logan, no! I’m not taking off my skirt to give you a quickie.”

He doesn’t smile back. “I’m not talking about sex, Ana.” He jerks his chin toward me. “It’s way too tight.”

“Seriously?” My pleasantness fades as I glace down at the pleated skirt, the bottom half of my server uniform.

“Don’t you think so?”

“Obviously not.” Knowing where this conversation is headed, I grab my phone off the dresser and walk through the door.

“No,youcan’t be serious,” his sluggish voice follows me into the living room. “I can literally see your ass cheeks through the back of that skirt.”

The cellphone vibrates in my hand. I glance down to see a pop-up of an Instagram notification on my screen.

“Ana. I’m talking to you.”

I sigh, glancing up from my Instagram feed to take in Logan’s disheveled hair and his red-rimmed eyes. “Go back to sleep, babe. You’re still exhausted.”

“Not until you take that skirt off,” he says gruffly. I don’t want those assholes at the bar lusting after my woman’s curves like that.”

It’s probably not the best time to point out that men would keep lusting even if I wear sackcloth, but I won’t. Not with him frowning so deeply. “Oh, I’m your woman now, am I?” I tease.

Logan’s scowl simmers. “That was a slip of my tongue, and you know it.”

I cock my head, staring at him skeptically. “Was it really? You didn’t stutter while introducing me as your friend.” To Joel, his casting director, no less. It’s been twelve hours since we ran into his colleague after dinner last night, and his comment still leaves a sting. After a year of dating, I thought I’d earn the girlfriend title by now.

“You’re trying to change the subject,” he grouses as my cell phone vibrates again. “And you’re also not listening to me.”

Again, I lift my eyes from the comments on a recent post I’d made. “This skirt is part of my uniform. You know that. My boss will write me up if I show up in anything else. You know that, too.” What he doesn’t know is that I’ve been on a thin line with said boss since he made a pass at me a few weeks ago, and I shot him down. There’s been a rumor that he’s been sleeping with the female staff, so I guess he’s not used to being told no.

“Bullshit. Frank will never do that. Not when you’re fucking a Bloomberg,” he says smugly, patting his chest.

“Don’t be crude, please.” I make a weird face at him.

“What? We’re fucking, aren’t we? And I’m a Bloomberg, aren’t I?”

Well… not really.His great-grandfather was Alfred Bloomberg, a famous screenwriter and film director, but they don’t share the same last name since Alfred came from the maternal side of his family. Still, I won’t ever mention that. He takes such great pride in telling anyone who’d listen that he’s following in his great-grandfather’s footsteps.

“Look, don’t worry about Frank,” Logan assures me. “You’re with me, and I’m about to be a big deal, just like my grandfather was. A few months from now, he’s going to be begging you to clock in.”

“A few months from now?” I laugh. “I’ll be out of there long before that. You promised, remember?”

His wary expression suddenly puts me on edge.

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