Page 50 of The Faking Game

That makes me pause. I saw a sleek gray cat running through the library the other day. I saw it again lying outside by the apple orchards, bathing in a speck of sunlight.

“Well, the estate seems to have one.”

“Maybe one of the staff feeds it.” He nods at my hands. “Come on. Hit me.”

“You’re a masochist,” I mutter, but I do hit him. Again and again.

He blocks them all, moving in a graceful line around me so I have to stay on my toes. A jab, a cut. Another hit to his head. He ducks it easily, sidestepping.

“Why have you never brought anyone home to meet your family?”

“You met my family,” he says dryly. “Why would I put a woman through that?”

“Except me.”

“I knew you could take it. We come from the same world.” He holds up his palms again, and I cross jab one of them. My breath is coming faster. It’s a good workout, this. Being on my toes. Moving in tune with him. “My turn,” he says. “How have you never been in a relationship?”

“I’m not telling you that.”

He narrows his eyes. “Right. Then tell me why you think you’re not angry.”

“Because I’mnot.I’m never angry.” I hit his right hand a bit harder, and his lips curve up again in that frustrating, arrogant smirk. Like he knows best. I hit his left hand as hard as I can, and the smack rings out loudly. “People don’t like it when you get angry, and I can’t stand it when they do. So I’mneverangry.”

West’s eyes are a pool of light brown, of scotch in the sunlight. “You can get as angry as you like with me. We’re locked together on this. So practice getting angry with me.”

“I don’t need to practice getting angry. I need to practicedating.”

“And why can’t you practice both, you little overachiever?”

I aim a hit straight at his head, at that smug smile. He ducks, and the smile only widens. His hair is messy now, falling in brown tendrils over his forehead. I’ve never seen him like this with me. Half undone and half exhilarated.

He looks like he does when I’ve seen him with my brother and their friends. When he comes to life, when he relaxes into himself. Mischievous confidence in a rich, handsome package.

He sidesteps, forcing me to follow him across the gym. “You need that anger,” he says. “You need it so you can stand up for yourself if a guy tries anything you don’t like. If he insists on taking you to see a movie you don’t like.”

“We’re supposed to get our stories straight.” I aim another punch at him, and he blocks it. “You just winged the first date story!”

“Of course I did. And they bought it.”

“I’mperceptive.What kind of compliment is that?” I hit him again and again, and he ducks effortlessly. Why won’t he go get the pads? Haven’t I proven how hard I can hit? My arms ache now.

“A true one,” he says. “I wasn’t pretending. Now come on. Don’t get lazy.”

I aim a hit to his left palm. He captures my gloved hand instead and starts undoing the Velcro around my wrist.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Moving on to the next stage.” He pulls off my other glove too and tosses them both to the carpeted floor. “Keep this energy and use it to argue with me. Push me away.”

Oh.

West takes a step closer, and the inches between us vanish into nothing but a sliver of heated air. He’s still wearing that expression that makes my chest tighten—the focused eyes, the curve to his lips. I reach up and put my hands on his chest.

He’s warm beneath the fabric of his T-shirt. Firmer than anyone has the right to be.

“That’s it,” West says. “Now push me away.”

I shove. He moves two inches, if that, but a smile spreads across his lips.

---