Page 17 of Faking the Shot
She leads me through the half-empty dining room, and the moment I spot Valentina, my eye twitches. Literally. It fucking twitches.
There she is, sitting at a corner table, oblivious to everything around her. Her dark hair is in some kind of haphazard bun with—not one, not two—but three pencils sticking out of it like she’s auditioning for a Clue remake. Her computer bag is parked on the table, its guts spilling everywhere—papers scattered across the tabletop, dangling off chairs, and maybe even the floor. It’s chaos personified, and I fucking hate chaos.
“Kaden,” she exclaims brightly, looking up with a smile so blinding it makes my twitch worse. “I was starting to think you were going to stand me up.”
Her cheerfulness is an assault on my senses. What the hell does she have to be so happy about?
I glance at the mess around her, then back at her grin. “Stand you up?” I snort, pulling out a chair. “Trust me, if I’d planned to skip, you wouldn’t have had to wonder. I would’ve sent a text.”
Her laugh is annoyingly soft, like she finds me charming. I’d almost prefer sarcasm; at least that makes sense.
And yet . . . I can’t help the way my gaze flickers to her lips when she takes a sip of water. Or how the hint of skin peeking from her collar draws my attention, completely uninvited. Damn her for looking like this—disheveled and sexy, like a goddess of academic disasters.
This is the woman I chose to be my fake girlfriend? I have no one to blame but myself. Well, no one except my cock, which clearly thought this was a brilliant idea.
And judging by the way it’s reacting now, it’s still fully on board. Traitor.
“Let’s get this over with,” I grumble, leaning back in my chair, crossing my arms like a shield against her endless cheer. Her smile doesn’t waver—if anything, it brightens—and for some reason, that pisses me off even more.
“May I start by asking: what are you so happy about?” I say, my voice low, watching her with a mix of irritation and intrigue. There’s something infuriatingly captivating about the way she glows—like she’s daring the world to dim her light.
She tilts her head, batting her lashes with exaggerated sweetness, mocking me without an ounce of shame. “You should always act like you’re happy to see someone. Like an old friend you haven’t seen in forever. Who wants to have dinner withsomeone staring at them like you’re staring at me right now? It’s off-putting and irritating as hell.”
I arch a brow, trying not to let her words dig under my skin. There’s a spark in her gaze, playful and challenging, and it makes her impossible to ignore. “So, what? You’re telling me I need a marching band to announce I’m thrilled to see you?” I shoot back, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
Her lips twitch like she’s holding back a laugh, and damn if it doesn’t do something to me. “No, I couldn’t care less. But if you want the media to think you’re less of a asshole, it might work in your favor to act like . . . you know . . . less assholish.”
I lean forward, the space between us shrinking as I lock eyes with her. Her confidence doesn’t falter, not even a little, and it’s maddening in the most fascinating way. “You know, I could have you fired,” I say casually, testing her resolve, though the thought feels hollow even as I say it.
Her laugh is soft but laced with defiance, a sound that’s unexpectedly addictive. “You could,” she replies, her tone breezy, as if we’re discussing the weather. “But then you’d be up shit’s creek. Who’d work with you after that? Most publicists won’t touch you with a ten-foot pole. And let’s not forget those sponsors threatening to drop you. So, sure, fire me. No skin off my teeth.”
She leans back, victorious, her grin infuriating and magnetic all at once. I should be livid, but instead, I find myself wondering what it’d take to knock that smug smile off her face—not out of spite, but because I’m starting to think she’d enjoy the challenge as much as I would.
My mouth opens, but the words don’t come. Nothing does. She’s right, and we both know it.
I lean back, crossing my arms tighter over my chest, trying to regain some sense of control. “Let’s just eat,” I mutter.
She raises her hand, signaling the waitress with a bright smile, and I feel my irritation spike again. It’s not just the smile—it’s the way it lights her up, like she’s having the best time in the world while I’m stuck here in the middle of . . . this.
“I’ll have grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, and a glass of sparkling water,” I say, not bothering to look at the menu. It’s my go-to order. Simple. Predictable. No surprises.
“Grilled chicken? Really?” Valentina scrunches her nose.
“What’s wrong with grilled chicken?” I ask, my tone sharper than I intend, but fuck it, I’m already on edge.
“Nothing,” she says, dragging the word out with exaggerated patience. “Except you can get grilled chicken at home. Restaurants are for trying something new, exciting your taste buds, not . . . playing it safe.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to ignore the way her teasing grin makes something spark in my chest. “You go ahead and excite your taste buds. Mine are perfectly fine as they are,” I mutter, turning my gaze to the table as if the pattern on the wood grain is suddenly fascinating.
But then my thoughts betray me. My eyes flick back to her lips—soft, curved, like she’s holding back a laugh or maybe another jab. And now I’m imagining what those lips might feel like under mine. Fuck.
No. Stop. Get it together, Kaden. She’s not cute. She’s . . . irritating. Infuriating. Too much.
Then she orders, and whatever resolve I thought I had evaporates. “I’ll have the triple-layer devil’s food cake, please.”
My head whips toward her. “Did you just order dessert before your entrée?”
She shrugs, completely unbothered. “I don’t intend to be here that long, Kaden. Why not start with the best part of the meal? I need something to get me through this riveting dinner.”
