Page 19 of Friends Who Fake It

His lip quirked to the side. “Clearly.”

She huffed out another breath. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He reached up then, his hand touching her cheek, sending shockwaves of awareness through her. Need. Or neediness? That awful, familiar desire for reassurance that stemmed from the black hole of feeling utterly and completely unloved and wanting someone—anyone—to clog it. She swallowed hard, past the lump that had suddenly developed right at the base of her throat, like she’d got a lozenge stuck there or something.

“Your relationship with Tom is none of my business.” It was the worst thing he could have said. Worse than making her feel like Tom hadn’t loved her enough was Francesco acting like he didn’t care either.

She glanced away quickly, but his hand stayed where it was, lightly brushing her cheek. A moment later, it dropped to her shoulder, at the same time he let out a small breath. A sigh?

“You were right. I’m no expert in relationships.”

She ignored the familiar pang in her chest and tried to grab hold of that. Of anything that might anchor them back into the present, and the reality of who and what they were—old friends.

“Are you really admitting you don’t know everything, Francesco?” She tried to infuse a teasing note into her voice, and smiled, for good measure, glancing back at him.

And his beautiful face. His dark eyes, like gemstones in his too handsome face.

She pressed her teeth into her lip, harder now, willing the pain to take away from all the other emotions that were swirling through her.

She wanted him to kiss her.

She wanted to feel those lips on hers.

But it would be a mistake. It would be a kiss borne of her need for reassurance, an attempt to shovel something into the emptiness inside her chest. The black hole that could never, seemingly, be fixed.

And to try to fix it with Francesco would be the worst mistake she could make, because in a life that was somewhat emotionally barren, her friendship with Francesco was something real and important, a touchstone that mattered to her.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she murmured, frowning a little.

“Perche non?It’s true. My track record speaks for itself.”

“Why?”

His eyes ran over her face. “Because I’ve been with a lot of women.”

She willfully ignored the stretching feeling inside of her chest, the strangely elastic sensation of her ribs expanding to the point of no return.

“One could argue that makes you very knowledgeable about relationships.”

“Except we both know my relationships are intentionally short lived and shallow. Though no less satisfying for that, I’ll grant you.”

Now the sensation in her chest morphed into something else. Jealousy. Anger. Frustration. All of the rage she usually kept tamped way, way down, deep inside of her.

“Possibly even more so,” he added, unhelpfully.

She made a soft noise, a sound of disdain. Or want. She could hardly tell.

“You are annoyed again,” he murmured, momentarily unnerving Willow for how well he could read her.

She shook her head. His hand lifted back to her cheek and Willow’s eyes widened. “I’m curious,” she said softly. “How does it work?”

He was silent, waiting. Watchful.

“You meet a woman in a bar, take her back to your place? Or hers? And then, what?”

He arched a thick, dark brow, his lips quirking in a teasing, half-smile. “What do you think,cara?”

Her cheeks flushed pink, and her heart did a funny little squishy thing at his repeated usage of the term of endearment.

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