Page 60 of Faking the Shot
After the order’s placed, we settle back into work. But as the minutes tick by, my focus starts to waver. Kaden is too close, too warm, too . . . Kaden. He’s tapping a pen against the table, his lips pressed into a thin line as he studies the screen of his laptop. And I hate how much I notice the way his shoulders flex when he shifts in his chair.
“Got something to say?” he asks without looking up.
“Nope,” I say quickly, pretending to be engrossed in my notes.
The doorbell rings, breaking the tension. Kaden gets up to grab the food, and I take a deep breath, trying to collect myself. When he returns with a bag full of takeout containers, he sets it down with a satisfied grunt.
“Dinner is served,” he announces, handing me a pair of chopsticks. “Don’t say I never feed you.”
“You ordered it. That doesn’t count as feeding me.”
“Details.” He smirks, opening a container of pad Thai.
We eat at the table, and it’s easy. No arguments, no tension, just two people sharing takeout and tossing around ideas for his new image. Every now and then, I catch him watching me, but I ignore it. I have to. Because if I let myself think too much about how good he looks, or how comfortable this feels, I’ll lose my mind.
As the evening winds down, I glance at the clock and realize how late it’s gotten.
“You can stay,” Kaden says, cutting off my excuse before I can even make one. “It’s late, and you look exhausted.”
“I’m fine?—”
“Holiday.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “You’re staying in the guest room. End of discussion.”
And just like that, I’m spending the night at Kaden Crawford’s place. What could possibly go wrong?
The blareof my alarm clock jolts me awake, and I slam my hand down on it to stop the incessant screeching. The abrupt silence feels like a blessing until I turn over and squint at the sunlight streaming through the window. For some reason, it seems brighter today—blindingly so.
Dragging myself out of bed, I stretch and throw on a loose sweatshirt over my tank top before making my way downstairs to the kitchen. The house is quiet, the kind of stillness that makes me think Kaden is probably still sleeping—or maybe he went for a run. Either way, it’s peaceful, and I’m determined to take advantage of the calm.
The kitchen is pristine, almost too pristine, like it’s barely used. I glance around, taking in the sleek countertops and high-end appliances. It’s the kind of kitchen that begs to be cooked in. I rummage through the fridge and cabinets, pulling out ingredients for a frittata—eggs, spinach, cheese, some leftover roasted veggies. I’ll make some pancakes if he wants, so I take out the ingredients to. A quick, easy breakfast.
I crack the eggs into a bowl, beating them with a fork and sprinkling in salt and pepper before setting it aside. The pan goes on the stove, a little butter sizzling as it heats up. While I wait, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through social media.
The usual nonsense. Pictures of influencers’ brunches, a viral video of a cat wearing sunglasses, and then—us. There we are, Kaden and me, kissing in that staged-but-not-quite-stagedmoment at the airport. The headlines are calling us a “hockey power couple,” and I nearly choke on my own breath.
We’re going to need more than a few fake smiles and a public kiss to sell this. The goal is to show Kaden as a reformed citizen—someone the media and his team can root for. But how do you humanize someone who spends most of his time growling like an angry bear?
Lost in thought, I don’t hear him until he’s standing right there.
“Morning.”
The deep rasp of his voice startles me, and I turn to see him leaning against the doorway. He’s bare-chested, a sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, and he’s wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung athletic shorts. His hair is damp, messy in a way that makes him look stupidly attractive.
“Good workout?” I ask, trying to sound casual while my brain supplies a very detailed mental image of those abs pressed against me.
“Yeah.” He smirks, grabbing a water bottle from the counter. “What about you? Planning on burning the house down?”
I frown, confused, until I realize he’s staring at the stove. “Oh shit.”
The pan is smoking, the butter nearly burned, and I frantically grab the eggs, pouring them in to stop the crisis. My heart races as I try to salvage breakfast.
“Relax,” he says, taking a long drink from his water. His Adam’s apple bobs, and I can’t stop myself from staring. “You’re lucky I came down when I did.”
“Lucky?” I mutter, focusing on stirring the eggs. “I had it under control.”
“Sure you did,” he teases, stepping closer, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the small kitchen.
I can’t help but notice how his broad shoulders seem to fill the room, or how his scent—clean soap mixed with the salt of sweat—lingers in the air. My mind betrays me again, conjuring thoughts of his hands sliding under my shirt, his fingers teasing my nipples, his lips trailing down my neck. Would he take his time, savoring every reaction, or would he push me to the edge, commanding my surrender?
