Page 88 of The Faking Game

He drives down the tree-lined driveway and to the wrought-iron gates with the intricateC. “How does it feel?” he asks.

“How does what feel?”

“Leaving home again.” West glances up at the mirror, at the car that follows us. Miguel, Sam and Madison are with us tonight. “He might watch us tonight.”

“Yes. That’s the point, right? For him to see us together.”

“Yes. But I asked how it made you feel.”

I look out the window, at the dark roads of King’s Point. Fairhaven lies at the shoreline farthest out on Great Neck, and from here, it’s all hedges and hidden houses. We won’t see lights and shops for at least another ten minutes. “It is what it is,” I say.

The photos that were delivered last week were terrifying. I stayed composed in front of West, but I broke down afterward in the safety of my bedroom. The stalker hadwatchedme.

Anyone can deliver flowers. Even someone halfway around the world.

But taking pictures of me out fabric shopping with my guards…

He was here.

“You can use more descriptive words.” West’s voice is dry. “I won’t hold it against you.”

“It sucks. But I won’t let it stop me from living my life.” My chest feels tight, and I force a smile. “I brought the card game you sent me.”

He glances at me, like he knows all too well I’m changing the subject, and not so subtly. But he doesn’t protest. “Well done,” he says.

The compliment feels like a shot of warmth. Maybe that’s all I need. West Calloway telling me how good I’m doing. I’ve come to crave it. “Where are we going tonight?”

“It’s a surprise,” he says.

“No. You’ll tell me. Won’t you?” I ask him. I make my voice low, mirror the flirtation I’ve seen others do. I’ve never had a chance to engage in it myself. I’ve always been on the back foot, two steps behind what the guy wants. “I don’t like surprises, Calloway.”

His lip curves. “You only use my last name when you’re annoyed with me.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Since you only do it when you’re annoyed at me, whether I like it or not shouldn’t matter.”

That makes me chuckle. “Sometimes I think you want me to turn into a jerk.”

“A jerk is honest,” he says, “and not particularly concerned with likability.”

“You sound like you have some experience with the subject.”

He smiles wide, and it transforms his face. Makes it come to life. “I do, yes. Some might say I majored in it.”

“Straight A’s?”

“Always.”

“Where are we having dinner, Calloway?”

His smile stays in place. “We’re having dinner at the yacht club.”

“Theyachtclub? Where you used to sail?”

“Yes.” He glances over at me and then back at the road. “I didn’t think you’d get that excited about it.”

I fiddle with the clasp on my bag. It’s a piece of him, and it’s far better than a fine restaurant in the city. But I can’t tell him that. “I’ve never sailed before,” I say instead.

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