Page 49 of The Faking Game

“You really are pathologically competitive.”

“Don’t listen to a thing Amber says.” He lifts that scarred eyebrow. “Hit me, trouble.”

I bend my knees a bit and take sight on his right palm. “Why did she quiz you like that last night?”

“Because she lives to annoy me,” he says, “and she wanted to see me sweat. Don’t procrastinate. Hit me.”

I give him an annoyed glance and then hit his palm with a jab. The glove connects softly.

“Weak,” he says.

I hit his other hand harder. Twice in a row. I tried boxing at the gym a few years ago, and this is just as thrilling.

“Better. But I know you have more anger inside you.”

“I’m not angry,” I say.

“Sure you’re not.”

I hit him harder. He doesn’t budge, just follows my movements with his hands, pushes back against my hits. And he keeps looking at me with those narrowed, intense eyes. Like he sees far too much.

“What are your hobbies?” I ask while hitting his right hand as hard as I can with a jab. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Sailing,” he says. “Working out. Traveling. If it ever comes up in conversation, you can use one of those.”

“Your favorite cocktail?”

His lips curve up. “Negronis.”

“Great. You can finish all the ones I’ll have to drink now.” I hit him again, and he takes a small step back. Taps his finger against his chin. “What do you work with?”

“You know that. I run Calloway Holdings, which owns Cal Steel and a few other companies.”

“Do you work from here?”

“Here, from the office in Manhattan, or I’m traveling for business.” He tilts his head back. “Aim for my head now.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’ll duck.” He lifts an eyebrow. “I thought you’d like the chance to hit me. Get some of your frustration out, trouble.”

“I don’t hate youthatmuch,” I say.

His smile curves. “I think you do.”

“I’m veryindifferentregarding you.” But I drop back down into the stance he showed me and try to punch his head. He does exactly what he said. He drops down, hands raised. I jab twice in a row. We haven’t done this long, and my shoulders are already aching.

“Why do you live here and not in the city?”

It’s the first time he’s hesitated before answering. It’s brief, but I catch it. “I don’t like being far from the ocean. The city doesn’t let you think.”

I pause for a moment. “Fairhaven is beautiful.”

“It is. And it’s mine.” He rolls his neck.

“What about your pet? The cat I’ve seen around?”

“I don’t have any pets,” he says.

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