Page 40 of Where Happiness Begins

I feel like both tensing away from him and leaning into his touch. He hasn’t been this close since our livestream, and I hate that I like it. Hate that I wish, even for only a second, that he didn’t have to wait for an opportunity to fake our relationship to touch me.

And yet I don’t know why he’s faking so well right now. This is different than when we pretended for my grandmother. Then I did my best to act as in love as possible with a brush here and a squeeze there, trying to fool someone who could easily read through me. We touched because it was necessary, and it seemed to work. Nan didn’t bat an eye, only gushing over how handsome Carter was and how she would “never forgive me” for not telling her about him first. But here, we could easily convince Vince that Carter and I area real couple without touching. He doesn’t know us. We could be a private, modest couple.

Yet modest is the opposite of how we are right now. Carter is so close that the whiskers of beard scratch my temple, hands tracing shapes on my body that feel like they’re being tattooed on my flesh.

I’m warm. Too warm.

I also don’t want this moment to end.

“By the way, Vince, about the tour…” Ethan begins.

Their manager ends up taking a seat next to the singer, and while I go to sit back in my place, Carter gets ahead of me and steals my spot.

I watch him for a moment before he subtly taps his thigh.

Oh God.

This is a bad idea. I’m already too riled up. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to pretend his touch doesn’t affect me.

I can’t hesitate too long, though. There are still people in the room who, for all intents and purposes, believe Carter and I are married, and it wouldn’t make any sense for a wife to refuse to sit in her husband’s lap.

In the end, he doesn’t allow me to question it any longer, instead tugging me by the hand until I fall back onto him, his scent enveloping me even more than before.

His breath tickles my ear before he whispers, “Relax.”

I turn, then whisper-hiss, “You relax.”

“Thought you wanted this to be believable. Not afraid of FBI spies anymore?”

That man. That freaking man.

I last all of one second of seriousness before elbowing him, then lean my back against his chest, the picture of a perfect couple.

“Good girl,” he whispers against my skin, then once again rests his hand on my hips, the contact as electric as ever.

My whole body is stiff as a rock. I shift on his lap, trying to find a position that allows for the least contact between our bodies, but in such a small seat, there aren’t many options.

He squeezes my hip in a contact that probably looks loving but that feels like a warning. “I’d stop doing that if I were you.”

“Hm?” I say, turning to him with my hair curtaining us away from the rest of the crowd.

He inhales sharply. “Stop. Fidgeting.”

And that’s when I feel it.

He’s hard under me.

If I was hot before, I’m now a furnace, body frozen over him.

“Want me to get up?” I whisper-shout.

He clears his throat. “Please don’t.”

There’s something in his voice that sounds a whole lot like embarrassment. It makes me smirk. Suddenly, I don’t feel like the vulnerable one in this scenario.

“You started this, you know,” I tell him.

“Oh, believe me, I know.”

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