Page 198 of The Faking Game

“You swearing? It’s a bad night.”

“It’s agoodnight. It’s a really fucking good night.” He grins at me, and I grin back at him. “Nora will hate that you punched him.”

“No she won’t,” I say. “She’ll say that she does, but she’ll secretly be thrilled.”

“I hate that you know that.”

“I know you do.”

“She told me you spoke of marriage. So you’re getting what you want in the end.” His voice isn’t judgmental, but it is resigned. “And you’ll be my brother-in-law.”

“She offered.” Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks. The rain picks up, and it’s seeping through the fabric of my jacket, slicking my hair to my head. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t want it to be your little sister. The woman I fell in love with. I tried very hard to make it not be her. For you.”

A car passes us. It’s the only one out in this weather.

“In love?” he asks.

I confess it to the night. “Yes. Love.”

He blows out a breath and curses in French. I catch enough of it to get the gist.

“Yeah. I know.”

“But she doesn’t know?”

“She doesn’t.” I run a hand over my face. “So I can’t let her marry me to do me a favor. I’ll only marry her if she wants it as much as I do.”

CHAPTER60

NORA

It’s only midnight when Amber and I get home. She wanders off in the direction of one of the guest rooms, yawning hugely and telling me, “We should do that again.”

We found a bar nearby that had good music, people our age, beer and wine and not a fancy cocktail in sight. We danced and talked and were approached by two groups of guys. I talked to a few of them, and I didn’t get too nervous.

But I don’t want a single one of them.

And I don’t want to go to sleep—not in his bed, not in my own. I’m too wound up, too irritated, too drunk and too angry at West. He swept into my life, gave me all these lessons, made me feel special, made me fall in love with him. And now? This silent, brooding act reminds me exactly of why he frustrated me so much years ago. His walls are back up, and I don’t know how to bring them down again.

He’s told me he doesn’t like marriage, but ours wouldn’t be like that. Doesn’t he realize that? Unless… he’s worried about being shackled to me. Maybe he likes me now, but he’s never actually said it. Not quite like that.

Neither of us has.

That’s how I find myself upstairs in the studio at nearly one a.m., the lights on, while Darcy lies sprawled out on an old futon, watching me steam silk.

The fashion show is in two days. I’ve gone over everything,everything, but I’m too restless to relax.

The white corset dress might not be strong enough. It might need more flair, more color, or a better fit. I might not win. It might be a disaster.

And now he’s out somewhere, and I don’t even know where. I’ve never cared about a man like this before. For a long time I wasn’t sure that I even could.

At least I have experience now. If I have to, I can find that strength with someone else. I’ll have to do what I did tonight over and over—chat with men, desperately trying to find a sliver of interest to compete with the roaring feelings I have for West.

It’ll be great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

That’s when I hear the creak of a door and two sharp knocks.

The cat’s ears perk up, and I glance toward the half-open studio door. “Hello?”

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