Page 162 of The Faking Game

She turns to me, resting her head against the headrest. There’s something relaxed about her, but her eyes are determined.

“What are you thinking about?” I ask her.

“After we get home,” she says, “I want to go out in public again. Maybe make out the way we did at the Fashion Institute and see if he texts me again.”

“You do?” I reach over and find her hand. Thread her fingers through mine. “I would never ask you to play bait.”

“I know. But I want to end this, once and for all.” She looks down at my fingers, curved around hers. “Let’s set a trap.”

CHAPTER47

NORA

“Are you scared?”

I look up at West. “No.”

A smile tugs at his lips at my quick response. He looks out at the people around us, the food stands, the chaos. We’re on a pier an hour west of King’s Point for a sailing regatta.

“You can tell me,” he says. “I won’t hold it against you.”

I’m a little annoyed at how easily he’s read me. “I know you won’t,” I say, “but I’m not scared. I’m… tense.”

“Tense,” he repeats.

“Yes.” It’s weird to know that he might be here, looking, watching us even now. It’s unsettling, even if this was the point. West even made sure his attendance here was announced beforehand.

His hand slides down my arm, coming to rest at my elbow. “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

I look over West’s shoulder and briefly meet Sam’s eye. He’s wearing a blue cap today with the name of a yacht club on it, dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of frayed jeans. In one hand, he’s holding a beer.

Just a casual attendee.

The curly ends of his hair cover the earpiece he’s wearing. He meets my gaze for a millisecond before turning back to chat with another undercover guard.

I shift closer to West. “I know. Still, it feels…”

The last time we were in public together, my phone lit up. We’re hoping the same thing happens today. That West and I can provoke the stalker to reach out if he’s watching us in person.

“It feels like what?” he says. “Tell me.”

“Is this a lesson too?” I ask, striving to make my tone light. “In sharing our feelings?”

“I’m not sure I’m the best at teaching that one,” he says.

“I have a great therapist I could recommend. Dr. Zeina Fares. She mainly practices in French, though.”

West’s face doesn’t change. It’s easy, when he looks like that, to see the man I once thought I knew. Arrogant, a bit cold, gruff. But there’s amusement in the liquid of his honeyed eyes. “Could I ask her about you?”

“No. Told you—privileged information.”

“What I wouldn’t give to hear your conversations.”

I shake my head a little. “I’m sure it would be endlessly amusing, but?—”

“Not amusing,” he cuts in. “Enlightening.”

“I’m an open book,” I say.

---