Page 20 of Faking the Rules

"I should change," I say finally, grabbing my sleepwear—plain cotton shorts and a t-shirt—from the dresser. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a minute."

In the tiny bathroom attached to my room, I take a deep breath, studying my reflection in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed, eyes bright with a mixture of fear and anticipation. What am I doing? This wasn't part of our agreement. Wasn't part of the plan.

But then, nothing about the past week has gone according to plan. The lines between real and fake, between performance and truth, have blurred beyond recognition.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Declan has removed his shoes and dress shirt, sitting on the edge of my bed in his white t-shirt and pants. The sight of him there—in my personal space, partially undressed, the fabric of his shirt clinging to the cords of his muscles —sends a wave of heat through me that has nothing to do with room temperature.

"Is this okay?" he asks, gesturing to his state of undress. "I can put the shirt back on if it makes you uncomfortable."

"It's fine," I say, though 'fine' is hardly the word for the riot of emotions his presence is stirring in me. "Thanks for staying."

"Anytime." The simple response carries weight, a promise extending beyond tonight.

I move to the bed, uncertain how to navigate this new intimacy. Declan solves the problem by shifting to one side, making space for me to sit beside him.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks gently. "About James?"

The question surprises me. I'd expected him to ignore the topic, to pretend the uncomfortable confrontation hadn't happened. "There's not much to say," I reply, settling beside him, careful to maintain a small distance. "He cheated. I left. End of story."

"Not quite the end," Declan observes. "He came all the way across the country to find you."

"To ease his guilt," I correct. "To make himself feel better about what he did. It wasn't about me, not really."

Declan studies me, something thoughtful in his gaze. "You don't think he actually regrets losing you?"

"I think he regrets getting caught," I say, the bitterness in my voice surprising even me. "Regrets that his perfect future got derailed. But me specifically? No."

"Then he's an even bigger idiot than I thought." The statement is matter-of-fact, delivered without the false sympathy or platitudes I've come to expect when people learn about my breakup.

I laugh despite myself, a short, surprised sound. "That's one way to look at it."

"It's the only way," Declan insists, his expression serious. "Anyone who would risk losing you for a meaningless hookup isn't just unfaithful, they're fundamentally stupid."

The conviction in his voice steals my breath. This doesn't sound like part of our act—there's no audience here, no one to impress or convince. Just us, in the quiet intimacy of my room, having a conversation that feels dangerously real.

"Why did you kiss me?" The question slips out before I can censor it.

Declan's eyes meet mine, something vulnerable flickering in their depths. "To make him believe. To make him understand that you've moved on."

"Is that the only reason?"

His gaze drops to my lips, then back to my eyes. "No," he admits quietly. "But it should have been."

The honesty in his answer makes my heart race. This is dangerous territory, far beyond the boundaries we established at the beginning of our arrangement. But I can't seem to stop myself from venturing further.

"And if I asked you to kiss me again?" My voice is barely above a whisper. "Right now, with no one watching. No one to convince."

The question hangs between us, charged with possibility. Declan's expression shifts, desire darkening his eyes to midnight.

"I would," he says, his voice rough with something I don't dare name. "But I'd be crossing a line we drew for a reason, Ellie."

"Maybe the line has already moved," I suggest, surprising myself with my boldness. "Maybe it was never in the right place to begin with."

His hand lifts to my face, thumb tracing the curve of my cheek with exquisite gentleness. "Are you sure about this? Because once we cross this line, we can’t go back."

The question forces me to confront the truth I've been avoiding—that my feelings for Declan have evolved far beyond our original arrangement, into something terrifying and wonderful and real.

"I'm not sure of anything anymore," I confess. "Except that I want you to kiss me again. For real this time."

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