Page 7 of Fake It 'Til You Feel It

Because Nathan picked it out.

I hadn’t realized until I’d slipped it on earlier, until I’d stared at myself in the mirror, wondering how the hell he knew. I’m not an easy person to dress—too much ass and a waist that makes off-the-rack sizing a nightmare.

But this? This fits like it was made for me.

My fingers twist against the fabric.How does he know my size?

I glance at him now, sitting comfortably beside me, swirling his drink like this is just another night. Like he didn’t just slip something onto my body without ever having to ask.

Eleanor’s gaze flicks over me—sharp, but not unkind. “A good choice,” she murmurs, eyes shifting briefly to Nathan before returning to her glass. “Classic. Understated.”

Nathan doesn’t react. But I do.

My spine stiffens, tension winding through me, because the approval shouldn’t matter, and yet, somehow, it does.

“So,” Harris kicks off the conversation, lazily swirling his chardonnay as he speaks, “Nathan tells me you’re the backbone of his operation.”

I feel my boss’s eyes on me. I panic, spitting out something that I know is useful: “I just keep his calendar organized.”

Nathan makes a sound—something between amusement and disbelief—before his hand finds mine on the table, fingers brushing against my skin like it’s second nature.

“She’s being modest,” he cuts in smoothly. His thumb strokes over the back of my hand, absent but deliberate, as if he isn’t even aware he’s doing it. “Dana sees opportunities I miss. Last month, she restructured our entire approach to the Miller project. Saved us millions.”

I tense at the contact, at the way his voice stays so easy, so assured, like my value is indisputable. Like this isn’t fake. The flicker of pride in his tone unsettles me more than the warmth of his touch.

Eleanor’s brow lifts as she studies us. She’s watching me, not him.

Nathan continues, still tracing slow, thoughtless circles over my skin. “She’s the reason half of our projects don’t implode before they even break ground.”

Harris hums, unimpressed or calculating, I can’t tell.

“A woman who knows her worth,” Eleanor says approvingly. She lifts her wine glass, tilting it in my direction, like she’s toasting me. “Hold onto this one, Nathan.”

I swallow, fingers gripping his before I realize what I’m doing.

Nathan squeezes back.

I hate that I notice.

Later,alone in our suite, Nathan loosens his tie. “You impressed them.” He lifts his chin, pretending to study the light stubble that’s beginning to grow back. He scrubs his hand over it and then frowns before his eyes meet mine in the reflection.

I indulge him with a mirthless laugh as I remove my earrings. “That was the point, wasn’t it?”

He pauses, studying me for a long moment. “Was it?”

I turn away, unable to hold his gaze, pretending it’s because I dropped the backing to my jewelry. “I should get some sleep.” I open my suitcase, grabbing the flannel pajamas that are neatly folded on top. I turn to head toward the small cabin bathroom to change, wanting desperately to be free from his presence.

“Dana.” His voice stops me. I look up, and he’s turned from the mirror to face me properly now. “What are we doing?”

“Playing pretend,” I reply quietly, fidgeting with the drawstring on the pants I’m holding. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

My response must not be what he’s expecting, because he grunts and turns back to the mirror. I test the waters, sidestepping toward the bathroom again.He isn’t even looking at me. This is stupid.

I change quickly, stepping out of the extravagant gown and into my favorite pajamas. The softness of the fabric is grounding, completely different from the chaos of the emotional tension still coiling in my chest.

Nathan is already in bed, one arm propped behind his head, scrolling through something on his phone. His shirt is gone, and I pointedly ignore how broad his shoulders look against the sheets.

“We got an answer back,” I say, keeping my tone neutral as I slide under the covers. “Harris’s assistant sent over the updated zoning proposals for Montclair.”

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