Page 20 of Fake It 'Til You Feel It

Why the hell am I nervous?

The ride isn’t long, but when I step out of the car in the emerald-green dress he had waiting for me, the world seems to still, as if holding its breath. The fabric clings in all the right places, luxurious against my skin, its deep green hue a striking match for Nathan’s sharp gaze when he sees me.

Nathan’s reaction is predatory, but it doesn’t scare me. His eyes darken, dragging over me with a slow, deliberate intensity that makes my stomach flip. His jaw tightens and his gaze rests finally on my face, like he’s fighting every instinct not to close the distance between us.

“You’re stunning,” he breathes, stepping close enough that his voice is meant for my ears alone. His hand brushes my lower back, lingering.

And just like that, I feel trapped.

Not by the dress, not by the event—but by the weight of his attention, heavy enough to make my stomach flip.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I manage, my voice tighter than I’d like. He’s in a sharp black suit, perfectly tailored, and the confidence he exudes could make a king bow to him.

The gala is a glittering whirlwind—champagne flowing like rivers, laughter lacing every corner, and music wrapping around us like a tangible force. The scent of salt and jasmine lingers in the air, blending with the warmth of candlelight flickering in glass lanterns along the dockside.

Nathan guides me forward with his hand at the small of my back, a touch that should feel familiar by now, but tonight, it’s different. It’s a quiet claim. A subtle declaration, even in a room full of power players and high society elites.

I force my shoulders to relax, scanning the crowd. Harris is here, of course, engaged in deep conversation with a senator near the terrace. Eleanor is laughing with a group of wives, already at ease. And me? I should be networking, schmoozing, playing my role, but instead, I feel hyper aware of the man at my side.

Nathan is in his element. Effortlessly composed, his presence a magnet for attention. People nod in greeting, exchanging subtle smiles, but his focus doesn’t waver. He keeps me close, moving with the confidence of someone who already owns the room.

I reach for a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, desperate for something to ground me.

"You’re not so bad yourself," I mumble, mocking myself.That was monumentally dumb. Good job, Dana.

His lips twitch. “Did you expect me to fumble my way through this?” The fact that he heard it, and responded, startles me.

“Would’ve been nice to see you a little less perfect,” I admit, sipping my drink.

His smirk deepens, but he doesn’t reply. Instead, he watches me, amusement flickering behind his gaze like he can see straight through me.

The weight of it sends a nervous heat curling in my stomach. I glance away, willing myself to find something else to focus on.

Before I can, his voice dips lower, curling around me like a promise.

“Care to dance?” His voice dips low. “Or should I carry you there and save us both the trouble?”

I glance up at him, narrowing my eyes. “Is this part of the act?”

“Not entirely,” he replies, his lips curving up. Before I can argue, he takes my hand, threading our fingers together like he’s done it a thousand times before, and guides me into the spotlight.

And just like that, I’m lost.

Nathan Clarke is devastating on the dance floor.

He doesn’t lead so much as he commands.

Effortless. Controlled. Infuriatingly good at it.

He moves with the kind of confidence that should be illegal, like he was made for this—like he was made for ruining me. And the worst part? He makes me match him. His touch is firm but not forceful, guiding me without hesitation, like heknowsI’ll follow.

Like he doesn’t have a single doubt that I’ll fall right in step with him.

Cocky bastard.

His palm slides lower. Deliberate. Claiming. The heat of it seeps through my dress, curling low in my stomach. I swallow hard. I swear he does it on purpose.

“You’re good at this,” I admit grudgingly, my voice soft.

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