Page 115 of The Faking Game

“No, no, they’re way too expensive.”

“But if you could?”

“Maybe this one… this emerald dress. I remember when it was worn at the Cannes Film Festival when I was a kid, and I was floored. I used to sketch it in my notebook, over and over again, trying to get the drapes in the fabric just right.”

West’s eyes are on me, not the dresses. “And what about this one?”

We move down the row, my voice getting more excited with each passing design. I’m halfway through telling him about how the slit in a dark navy gown was the first of its kindeverwhen I put a hand over my mouth. “Sorry. I’m boring you.”

“No. You’re not.”

“Really?” I ask. “Because people who don’t like fashion don’t usually find this interesting.”

“I find you interesting.” West’s hand runs up my back, and his fingers tangle with the ends of my hair. The light tug at my scalp feels good. “Keep going.”

“You’re good at this,” I tell him. Maybe he won’t see how flustered this makes me, his full attention, the hand playing with my hair, if I disarm him first. “Pretending.”

“Maybe I have a good scene partner,” he says.

“Thanks for coming here tonight. I wouldn’t have been able to go without you.”

Somewhere behind us, the music picks up, shifts from a classical piece to a modern cover. “Tonight serves us both,” he says. “This will be in the papers tomorrow.”

“The Calloway heir and the Montclair heiress,” I murmur. I saw some of the chatter online after the last pictures of us surfaced. “They seem to like it. The public, I mean.”

His hand slides forward, fits against the side of my face. It’s warm against my skin. “We’re a good match.”

“Mhm. Your mother still happy?”

“She is, yes.”

“No harem of women thrown your way?”

His lip curves. “No, not since you moved in with me.”

“I must be the most hated woman in New York,” I say. There’s flirtation in my voice, and it feelsgood.It feels good to reach up and fix the stiff collar of his shirt. “You’re the most eligible bachelor in the country, and here I am, taking you off the market.”

“No one could hate you.”

“I don’t know about that,” I say with a smile.

“And if anyone should be on the receiving end, it’s me.” His Adam’s apple is so close to my fingers. I brush the back of my knuckle against it. His skin is warm. “You’re beautiful. People want to buy what you model, look like you, date you. I’m the one taking you off the market.”

“I’m not that famous.” My fingers trail up, along the edge of his jaw. It’s still a wonder to me that I get to touch him like this.

“Mmm?” His free hand fits against my waist, warm and big. “I want one person to hate me very much.”

My breath catches. “The stalker.”

“Yes. I want him to look at the photos tomorrow, of us out on that red carpet, and I want him to burn up inside with hatred for me. To wish he was where I am right now, holding you.” West’s eyes drop to my lips. “I want him to imagine the things you do for me that you’ll never do for him.”

“You’ve thought about this.”

“I have,” he admits darkly. “Because I want him to get reckless, and stupid, so I can catch him.”

The fierceness in his eyes makes me feel like when he draped his suit jacket around me. Enveloped, warm, taken care of. For years, I hated it when my brother tried to do that sort of thing. When my mother complained I was moving too far away.

But with West, it makes me stronger.

---