Page 82 of Love Me Like It's Real
Uhm…not sure. Something with you, I suppose?
I watch the dots dance on my screen, waiting for his response with bated breath.
Hayworth:
Of course. The girls would find it weird if we didn’t go out for V-day, right?
Of course. He was talking about our plan. Of course he didn’t want to go on a date for Valentine’s. Of course he hadn’t changed his entire personality overnight on my account. I was just a job for him. A fun job with even funner benefits, but a job nonetheless.
Felix:
Yeah, you’re right. What should we do?
I press send and lock the phone and slide it across the kitchen island. As if pushing it farther away from me will take away those feelings nesting inside me.
I turn to my laptop and check my word count.
“Holy shit!”
No way I’ve written fifteen thousand words in one sitting. What the hell?
I guess Hayworth really does it for me. In more ways than one.
Maybe it’s worth continuing this apparent charade if it means I get my writing career underway. And trust me, all those emotions festering inside can produce a whole damn library’s worth of books.
Probably more productive than going after the man who’s banished love forever from his life.
TWENTY-FIVE
HAYWORTH
It’s been three days since I’ve seen him. Three days since I’ve been inside him. Three days since I’ve smelled his addictive perfume and his warm embrace, and I’m going crazy.
It’s like having an itch that can’t be scratched and that only makes the desire to scratch harder, more desperate. Which might not be the best analogy but itison point. And that’s not even the worst part. No. The worst part is that I love this feeling. It makes the promise of being with him even more exhilarating, even more electrifying.
There’s not an hour that goes by I don’t check my phone, wishing there’s an unread message I’ve missed, hoping there’s a new scandalous photo to derail my day and pull my focus away from my life and work and drive me into a horny delirium.
I hate it. I hate feeling like that. As if I’m hooked on him. Because I know that’s how it starts. I know that’s what happens before I lose all control and when I lose control of my own feelings…that’s when it all falls apart.
And yet I already have no power to stop it. I can’t pull back from our fake dates. I can’t pull away from this arrangement. I know it’s the right thing to do but I don’t have the strength to speak it aloud and put an end to it before I lose my heart yet again.
Which is why I’m here on Friday night, waiting for him. I’ve avoided him long enough. I’ve kept myself busy for as long as I could. It might be freezing cold, my limbs might be going numb but I’m here, waiting for him. Longing for him.
I see his car drive around the city park and a few minutes later he walks up to us, up to me and I’m once again drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
He’s wearing a navy-blue coat with a fur lining around the hood and a mustard yellow hat with matching gloves and scarf. His eyes have very fine but perfectly applied eyeliner and his lips are as pink and juicy as I remember them. His cheeks are also rosy red but I can’t tell if it’s from the cold or applied blush. He’s stunning. He looks like a magazine model and I feel so much bigger, so much fuller when he walks up to me and gives me a hug. I feel lucky that he’s chosen me as his mate.
Shit. Fake mate.
Fake date even.
It’s all an act, Hayworth. We’re playing a game here. None of this is real.
I shake my head, trying to clear it of these odd intrusive thoughts and return the embrace trying—and failing—to keep myself and feelings at bay.
“You came,” I whisper.
“Of course. We made plans,” he answers and slowly pulls away from me. Even that feels like a crime.
