Page 58 of The Faking Game

“It’s your right to.” She took her guards with her, and despite what she might think, I’m not her jailor. Never have any intention of being so, either. I open the door for her. “I’m not angry at you. But we can pretend that I am, if you like.”

Her lips part. “You mean…”

“Practice arguing. You haven’t had much issue standing up to me in the past, so it shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

“That’s different. You’re different.” She pauses in the doorway to my home, and then her shoulders straighten. “Okay. Tell me off.”

The determination in her voice makes my lips twitch. But I don’t let any of that amusement bleed into my tone. “Where were you?”

“Out,” she says. She puts her bags down on the checkered marble floor. “I brought guards. Amos and Miguel. I even stopped to get us all burritos between errands. I went to two fabric stores, one bookstore, and a coffee shop. I made sure the guards were feet away the whole time.” She turns to me, fitting her hands to her hips. “Are you pleased, my fearless leader?”

My lips curve. “That’s an exaggeration, wouldn’t you think?”

“You’re right. Despot.Dictator.” She takes a step forward, and her smile morphs into something sweet. “Is that better?”

“You’re doing spectacularly,” I tell her. “And who said you’re allowed to go out?”

“I did. You don’t set my schedule. I followed every single rule.” She grabs one of the large bags stuffed with fabric. I take it from her and shift it to the hand farthest away so she can’t steal it back.

“Feeding your guards is not part of our deal.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

“No. It’s practical. Do you know whether they have allergies? What if Amos has a severe gluten intolerance and your kindness puts him out of commission for three hours? Who will guard you then?” I step past her to grab the bag of books. It’s far heavier than the one stuffed full of fabric.

“Where are you going with those?”

I head for the stairs. “Your workspace.”

“Amos isn’t gluten intolerant.”

I look over her shoulder. “Why do you know that?”

“Because he ate bread. And he was able to perform his very boring duties of walking five feet behind me without keeling over in pain. I asked what they’d want, and he said he loved a place down the street.” She follows me up the stairs, her heels clicking against the wood. “Why wouldn’t I be allowed to buy lunch for my guards? That’s ridiculous.”

“They’re not your playthings.”

“I don’t treat them like they are. Which is why I fed them!”

“Not your pets, either.” The irritation in my voice isn’t entirely staged. Amos is tall, handsome. He has an easy smile, and he’s around her age, too.

“I bet they do a better job if they’re well-fed. Also, unless any of them file an HR complaint, it’s officially none of your business.”

“I hire them. I pay them.” Shouldering open the door to her studio space, I tilt my chin to tell her to go first. “It’s decidedly my business.”

“You’re being an ass.”

“Did you want to go to the place Amos suggested, or did you please him by choosing it?”

“Don’t overanalyze everything I do,” she snaps.

I set the bags on the large table Ernest must have put in here for her. In the center of the room, right next to two mannequins and a sewing machine. “Did you buy half the store?”

“I bought some books. For inspiration.” She takes a deep breath and glances at me. “And I’ve agreed to the guards. I want the guards. But how I interact with them is up to me, not you.”

I look down into one of the bags to hide my smile. “You should have let me pay for all of this.”

“What? No. This is my collection.”

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