Page 21 of Fake It 'Til You Feel It

His lips curve, lazy and knowing. “I’m good at a lot of things.”

My pulse jumps. My grip tightens against his shoulder, and his smirk deepens like hefeltthat reaction. Like heexpectedit.

“I don’t recall you ever being this smug,” I narrow my eyes, tilting my head.

His voice drops, rich and infuriating. “Only when I’m winning.”

Thenerve!

I lean in closer, letting my breath ghost against his ear as I whisper, “I hate you.”

He inhales sharply, and when he speaks again, his voice is huskier, quieter. “No, you don’t.”

I should pull away. I should end this game before I lose.

But I don’t.

And neither does he.

The music shifts, slowing, but neither of us stops moving. His grip tightens, fingers flexing against my back, and his gaze flicks to my mouth.Dangerous.

That’s what this is. A slow, dangerous spiral I should be trying to escape.

Instead, I let myself fall deeper.

Chapter Eight

NATHAN - FUCK IT!

The music thrums through the air, a slow, sultry rhythm that lilts through the gala like a shared secret. A live band plays something rich and bluesy, the kind of melody meant for stolen glances and lingering touches rather than rigid formality. It’s elegant without being stuffy—just like everything else in Nathan Clarke’s world.

She’s so close. The kind of closeness that makes it hard to think straight. Not when her hand is in mine, her fingers delicate but sure, like she belongs there. Not when my other hand grips her at the waist, anchoring her to me while the slow, deliberate sway of her body makes it impossible to pretend this is just for show.

This started as an act… but it doesn’t feel like one anymore.

I need to keep reminding myself that this is carefully constructed charade to seal the deal with Wallace Harris. His words from earlier—about focusing on family—echo in the back of my mind.Right now, nothing about this feels fake.

For the first time, I wonder if I’ve been playing the wrong game entirely.

She tilts her head up, her deep brown eyes locking with mine. For a moment, the world falls away. The crowded gala, the endless chatter, even the music—it all fades into the background. All I see is her.

I’m losing control.

Her lips part, her expression caught somewhere between curiosity and something deeper. Something more primal.

My grip on her waist tightens, pulling her closer. Her breath catches, the sound sending searing heat straight through me.

This is reckless. The kind of mistake that changes everything.

I should take a step back. Adjust my hold. Think about something unsexy—spreadsheets, traffic, my taxes. Anything but the way she fits against me or how one wrong move might ruin both our nights. My restraint is hanging on by a thread, and she’s holding the scissors.

If she notices the problem brewing below my belt, she doesn’t mention it.Merciful of her.

“Nathan,” she whispers, her voice a mix of warning and invitation. It’s the kind of tone that makes surrender feel inevitable.

The way she says my name snaps my control—fuck it.

I’ve spent days being anythingbutprofessional while convincing myself that I can handle being close to her without crossing the line. But every glance, every touch, every second I spend with her makes it harder to ignore the truth.

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