Page 97 of The Americana Playbook

“Fitz? What’s wrong?”

I reach up and grab my crisp white t-shirt by the back of the neck and lift it over my head.

“Nothing,” I say when Parker returns into view, her doe eyes rounded as I drop my hands to undo my belt buckle.

I’m pissed, but clearly not blinded by my anger enough to miss the way Parker’s eyes linger on my bare skin before they flee and settle on the window.

The clang of the buckle draws Parker’s eyes again, but she plays like she doesn’t notice, like she’s not bothered or affected by me unbuttoning my jeans and letting them slip down and hang below the band of my boxer briefs.

I hope I’m coming off stronger than I feel. The color of her cheeks has my knees a little weak.

It’s not that I want to torment her. But all is fair in love and a fake relationship. I don’t need the fact that she’s decided there’s already a lifeafterme with someone else thrown in my face. If she’s going to dangle that in front of me, I can dangle something too. Within reason, of course. Because unless I plan on opening a can of worms an hour before we’re supposed to be ready for this engagement party, I can’t quite shed more clothes and let Parker see her handwriting inked into my skin. Not yet, at least.

“W-what are you doing?” Parker asks as I step over to where she sits on the bed. Her knees bump into me.

God, just the view of her looking up at me through thick, dark lashes sends the blood flowing. She’s got me wound up and in the mood to be cruel, but I know I’ve got to hold myself back from messing up her makeup in the way I really want to.

“Fitz?”

I exhale heavily through my nose. “You gave me your cheek.”

“What?”

“In the restaurant, when I went to kiss you.” I grimace. “You gave me yourcheek.”

A breath of a laugh escapes her lips. “Your mom was standing right there.”

“Since when have you ever worried about what parents think? I once saw you walk into your dad’s study to steal booze while he was there on the phone.” I have her there, and she knows it. I lower my head a bit, slowly, wondering if Parker might cower, but she remains stoic and steadfast.

“I’m not sure what I did to give you the impression I’d ever be fine kissing you on the cheek in a room full of people.” She opens her mouth to speak, but I continue, “I guess it’s good this is all for show. You couldn’t handle me anyway.”

I should’ve known better than to expect some sort of flinch or a step back from Parker. Instead, her eyes narrow, their sweet honey color lit by a glint of mischievousness behind them. She’s about to try to call my bluff.

“Is that what you think?” she purrs out the question. “That I couldn’t handleyou?”

Slowly, she rises off the bed. I should take a step back to give her space, but I don’t. Her covered middle touches my bare one, and it takes everything in me to hold in the breath that’s trying to escape. And fuck, Parker can tell. Her red-painted, heart-shaped mouth smooths into a curt smile.

God, I want to ruin her lipstick. I want to bepaintedin it.

Pushing up on her toes, she asks, “What makes you so sure you could handleme, Fitzy?”

Fuck me. I want to squeeze my eyes shut, but I don’t because no matter where this leads, I don’t want to miss a millisecond of it.

She drops back down onto flat feet. “You’re a quarterback.” Her eyes break their lock with mine and float down my chest. “You love to control the game. But I think you forgot something.”

I swallow. “What’s that?”

“I’m the one calling the plays here, Fitzy.”

My chest rises and falls quickly. “Nothing surprises me. I’m ready for everything.”

I gulp. Except the feel of her hand pressed against my stomach and the raking of her short nails against the hair below my belly button.

Parker tips her head to the side. “Tell me, then. What’s your read on the play now?”

“You’re going to back down and tell me to get ready so we’re not late. Because you’re chicken.”

But Parker doesn’t back down, doesn’t create more space. “And what areyougoing to do then?”

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