Page 12 of Fake It 'Til You Feel It

My hand finds the small of her back, and I take over.

The shift is subtle, a change in control that makes her breath catch—but I hear it. I feel it.

She follows without hesitation, like she’s done this before.Like she trusts me.

The crowd fades into nothing.

It’s just us, the steady pull of the music guiding us in effortless, sweeping motions. The warmth of her pressed against me. The rhythm that keeps us moving as one.

Dana’s hand tightens on my shoulder. She’s holding on, whether she realizes it or not.

“I didn’t know you could dance,” she murmurs, her voice lower than before.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Her lips part, like she’s searching for something to say—but nothing comes.

I spin her—slowly, deliberately—watching the way her dress flares, the way she barely holds back a smile as I pull her back in.

She lands closer than before.

Her chest brushes mine.

For a second, I swear she leans in, like some part of her forgets we’re playing a game.

I can’t tell if it’s her breath or mine that speeds up first.

Then the music ends.

The applause is deafening. Dana’s cheeks are flushed, her smile wide.

And for a moment, I’m the one who forgets this is an act.

For a moment, it feelsreal.

Chapter Five

DANA - PICTURE PERFECT

Nathan Clarke is infuriating.

He’s also too attractive for his own good, which is probably why he thinks testing my patience is a game. That smirk from this morning—arrogant, knowing, like he could read every single thought I’ve been trying to suppress—has been haunting me all day.

And worse? He’s right to be smug. Because I can’t stop thinking about it.

I hate the way my mind keeps circling back to how he held me when we danced, the way his voice lowered when he murmured in my ear. I hate that my skin still tingles where his hands had been, that my pulse betrays me when he leans in too close.

I hate that pretending to be his other half feels too easy. Too natural. Too real.

And yet, across the deck, his gaze keeps finding mine.

I tell myself it’s just the act, just the game he loves playing. But the longer we hold each other’s stare, the harder it is to convince myself that I’m the only one feeling this pull.

The yacht glows under the fading sunset, the water rippling with streaks of molten gold and fiery red. Its serene beauty is at odds with the storm building in my chest. Across the deck, Nathan leans against the railing, wine glass in hand, looking far too relaxed. He talks casually with Harris and his wife, probably trying to close the deal before the trip ends, but his gaze keeps finding its way to me. I watch him look over to check on me three or four times before he winds up excusing himself to approach me directly.

“You’ve been quiet,” he observes, his voice slicing through the soft hum of the motor in the ocean.

I glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t realize I was part of the entertainment tonight.”

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