Page 9 of Fake It 'Til You Feel It

“Unfortunately,” she sighs, “What’s your excuse?”

“Too much on my mind.”

She snickers softly, turning toward me. In the faint moonlight, her outline is sharp and soft at once. “Like what?”

“You.” The word escapes before I can stop myself.

Her breath hitches. “Me?” she says, like she doesn’t believe it.

“You were incredible today,” I muse. “Harris and Eleanor loved you.”

She laughs softly, her gaze returning to the ceiling. “If this is your attempt at buttering me up, it’s not working.”

“I’m serious.” I hesitate, then add, "Am I not allowed to give you real compliments, even though we’re playing pretend?"

Her lips press together. She doesn’t answer right away.

“It’s called acting, Nathan. You should try it sometime.”

“Is that still all this is for you? An act?”

Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and dark. For a second, something flickers there—something unguarded—but then it’s gone.

“What else would it be?” she counters, her voice steady. Too steady.

I shift closer, my hand brushing against hers. Barely a touch, but enough to make her inhale sharply. I watch her chest rise and fall in sync with mine, smirking when the routine motion is disrupted as our skin connects.

Her gaze flicks to my mouth. Her lips part.

“If you’re just acting,” I whisper, “you’re really damn good at it.”

For a second, I think she might close the distance. Her breath catches, her eyes dropping to my mouth.

“Maybe we should…” she whispers, her voice soft but uncertain. The thought dies in the air between us.

Her words snap me back to reality, my jaw tightening. The moment shatters. I pull my hand away, the loss of contact colder than it should be. “Goodnight, Dana.”

She blinks, then rolls onto her other side, putting her back to me. Her shoulders stay stiff, like she’s waiting for me to say more—domore.

I don’t.

The tension lingersas our morning begins. Dana moves through the suite with precise efficiency, her every motion controlled, practiced—except for the way her dress pulls across her curves as she reaches for something.

I shouldn’t notice. But I do.

“Stop staring,” she chides without looking at me.

“How do you know I’m staring?”

“Because you always are,” she mutters.Am I really?

I laugh incredulously. “Do I make you nervous?”

Her hands falter, just for a second. The fabric shifts with her, hugging her in a way that makes it impossible not to look.

“No,” she replies, a bit too quickly.

I smirk. “Liar.”

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