Page 138 of The Faking Game

I used to wonder about that. What it would be like to share a bed. But he’s made it easy. Night after night, I’m growing more comfortable with his body against mine. Learning the little places he’s rough that I’m not, finding the soft skin at the base of his throat, the way his chest hair feels against my fingers.

“Yes?” West asks.

“Sir.” It’s Ernest’s voice, dignified and controlled. “I suspected you would be here.”

If there was ever a hope of keeping this quiet… I draw the comforter up to my neck.

“What’s happened?”

“Mr. Montclair is here.”

My smile freezes in place.

“Rafe? Where?”

“He’s in the kitchen as of now, where Melissa and I are distracting him with food.” There’s a short, tense pause. “When I informed him that you had not yet started your day, he wanted to go upstairs.”

“I bet he did, the bastard,” West mutters. “Keep him in the kitchen. I will be down.”

“He’s asking for his sister.”

“She will be down too.”

Shit. I hear the door close, and I race out of bed. Rafe’s here? “He didn’t tell me he was coming,” I call to West. He’s leaning against the open doorway to my bedroom.

His jaw is clenched. “He didn’t tell me either.”

“What do we do?”

“Take your time,” he tells me. “I’ll head down.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

West turns and leaves, and I wait for the sound of my door opening and closing before I jump into the shower. I hurry through the motions, skip washing my hair, and get changed into a pair of jeans and a tank top.

Classic Raphaël. He’ll show up, smile, and tell us in that smooth, suave voice he likes to affect thataren’t we glad to see him?

I run a brush through my sleep-mussed hair and spread it out around my shoulders. A quick glance in the mirror will have to do. I stick my feet in a pair of mules and walk past the cat, who’s stretched out in the nook that overlooks the ocean, looking just as peaceful as I wish I was feeling right now. He still doesn’t have a name.

I hear their voices halfway to the kitchen and take a deep breath before rounding the corner.

Rafe is leaning against the kitchen counter where I usually spend my mornings. His eyes meet mine, and his handsome face breaks into a smile.

“Hey. It’s not like you to sleep in.”

I cross the space to hug him. My brother is six-foot-two, just as tall as West, but with messy black hair he inherited from our father.

“But it is like you to make an entrance,” I say and kiss his cheek. “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.” His hand finds my shoulder, and he looks at me with narrowed green eyes. “You’re doing well?”

“Yes.”

“West is taking care of you?”

I can’t look at the man standing beside us.Try not to think of his face between my legs, of all the ways he’s treating me well. “Yes, he is.”

“You’re smart to stay here as much as you are,” he says. “The stalker is getting… closer. But that’s good.”

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