Page 30 of Faking the Shot
Valentina snorts, her hand trailing over the sleek, minimalist desk. “True, this doesn’t look like a house that raised six kids. It looks like an interior design magazine threw up in here.”
“Exactly,” I say, flopping onto the bed. The mattress barely bounces under me—fucking memory foam. “Minimalistic. Modern. Basically, everything that screams, ‘We survived chaos and now want peace.’”
Valentina takes another step, turning to eye the bed. “So this is where you used to dream about hockey and practice your charming grumpiness?”
I grab a pillow and toss it at her. “Hardly. Back then, it was a shrine to my childhood obsession with the Sharks, the Ocean, and about fifty trophies. My parents gave some stuff away, saveda few things for the grandchildren they hope will come one day, and replaced it with this.” I gesture at the white walls and sleek, neutral furniture. “Apparently, ‘personality’ doesn’t match the vibe. According to Pops, we should be thankful they let us have our room back.”
She catches the pillow with ease, hugging it to her chest as she smirks. “I don’t know. I think you’d fit in just fine with these clean lines and neutral colors. Matches your sunny disposition.”
“Ha. Ha,” I deadpan, closing my eyes and propping myself up against the headboard. “Are we done here? You’ve seen the room. You can make up whatever bullshit story you want now.”
“Oh, no,” she says, pacing to the window and peering out at the stables below. “We’re not done. I need details. What’s your nighttime routine? Do you snore? Have you ever cried yourself to sleep?”
“Are you writing a fucking memoir about me?”
“Just making sure I’m prepared,” she says, spinning back to face me with a self-satisfied smile. “Now, tell me—what’s the most embarrassing thing your family might bring up?”
I groan, dragging a pillow over my face. “This is torture.”
“No,” she says cheerfully. “This is planning. Now talk, Crawford.”
So she wants the nitty-gritty? Fine. I can give it to her. I sit up, yanking my shirt over my head, exposing my abs. “I usually sleep naked,” I say nonchalantly, tossing the shirt onto the chair.
“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice a little shaky as her eyes dart anywhere but at me.
“You said you want to know my routine,” I reply, smirking as I kick off my shoes, the soft thud of them hitting the floor filling the room. “I’m more of a ‘show and tell’ kind of guy. Oh, and no socks in bed. Feels fucking weird.”
“I don’t care about those things,” she says, her voice trembling slightly as her arms cross over her chest. She takes a step back, her bravado slipping just a little.
I stand up from the bed, moving toward her with deliberate ease, and twist the lock on the door with a soft click. Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn’t move, frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights. I cock an eyebrow, the corner of my mouth twitching upward as I enjoy the way her confidence is faltering. “Afraid to see me naked, Valentina Holiday?” I tease, stepping closer, letting the space between us shrink. My grin widens when she shifts uncomfortably. “Didn’t think you’d get shy on me.”
“I’m not afraid,” she stammers, her chin lifting in defiance even as her cheeks flush a rosy pink.
“Good,” I say smoothly, leaning in just enough to make her breath hitch. “Because it would really ruin the vibe if my fake girlfriend couldn’t handle me flirting with her.”
Her lips press into a thin line, but her gaze betrays her, flickering to my chest before darting away again. “This isn’t flirting, Crawford. This is you being ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” I echo, taking another slow step toward her, deliberately closing the distance. “Is this kind of flirting not to your liking, baby?”
Her mouth opens, but no words come out. She takes another step back, her heel bumping into the edge of the desk. Her escape route is gone, and I take full advantage, placing a hand on the desk beside her, leaning down slightly until we’re almost nose to nose. My grin turns wolfish as I watch her throat bob with a nervous swallow.
“What happened to all those rules of yours?” I murmur, my voice low and deliberate, brushing over her like velvet. “No improvising, no surprises. Well, I’m showing you what happens when I’m flirting, baby. I’m showing you just how very, very attentive I can be to your needs.”
“I don’t have needs,” she shoots back, but her voice is shaky, her resolve hanging by a thread. “And this isn’t flirting. This is you being . . . you.”
I chuckle, the sound rough and quiet. “You’re right. This is me. And you better get used to it, Valentina. Because if you’re gonna keep throwing rules in my face, I’m going to show you just how well I can follow them.”
Her eyes narrow, attempting to glare at me, but the flush creeping up her neck betrays her. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” I say, my voice dropping as I tilt in just enough to feel her breath hitch again, “here you are, trying to get to know me—all of me.”
For a second, the space between us feels charged, the tension so thick it’s almost unbearable. Her chest rises and falls, her breath quickening, her hands gripping the desk behind her like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.
“This was supposed to be professional,” she mutters, more to herself than to me.
I move closer, so close there’s barely a breath between us, so close I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Her lips part slightly, and I can’t tell if it’s in protest or anticipation, but it doesn’t matter. We’re a kiss away, and my control is hanging by a thread.
“You know,” I murmur, my voice low, teasing, “they say once you’ve done something for a thousand hours, it’s considered professional.”
