Page 67 of Fake As Puck
“Yeah. Me too. Goodnight, Liv.”
“Goodnight.”
I head to my room and catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I’m getting ready for bed. I look nervous. Flushed. Like someone who’s been thinking about things she shouldn’t be thinking about.
I change into one of the cute pajamas sets I bought specifically for this trip. Soft cotton shorts and a matching camisole that’s practical but prettier than my usual sleepwear.
Not because I’m planning anything. Not because I’m hoping anything will happen.
Just because I want to feel good about myself. Because looking good is armor, and right now I need all the armor I can get.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about the way West’s leg felt pressed against mine or the moment in the grocery store when he was standing behind me and I could feel his breath on my neck.
I try not to think about how easy it would be to walk down the hall to his room. How simple it would be to knock on his door and tell him I can’t sleep and see what happens next.
Instead, I close my eyes and try to force myself to sleep.
I dream about him anyway.
Vivid, detailed dreams where he’s kissing me in his kitchen and I’m running my hands through his hair, and everything feels right and real and perfect.
I wake up frustrated and annoyed at myself for letting my subconscious betray me like that.
Thursday follows the same pattern.
We’re careful around each other but not careful enough. We maintain appropriate distance but somehow keep ending up closer than we should be.
In the morning, we brush our teeth side by side at his bathroom counter, and I catch his eyes in the mirror. He’s watching me spit toothpaste into the sink, and there’s something in his expression that makes my stomach flip.
“What?” I ask, wiping my mouth with a towel.
“Nothing.”
But he’s still looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
At lunch, we make sandwiches together, and he reaches around me to get the mustard from the fridge. His hand lands on my hip for just a second, steadying himself, keeping me from backing into him, and the touch sends electricity through my entire body.
“Sorry,” he says, but his hand lingers for a beat longer than necessary.
“It’s okay.”
But it’s not okay. None of this is okay.
This slow burn of attraction that’s getting harder to ignore with every passing hour.
This constant awareness of each other that makes the air feel thick and charged.
This thing that started as fake and is becoming something that feels dangerous and real and completely unsustainable.
Thursday night, we’re getting ready for bed at the same time, moving around his bathroom like we’ve done this a thousand times before.
I’m brushing my teeth when he comes in to wash his face. We work around each other in the small space, careful not to bumpinto each other but somehow always aware of exactly where the other person is.
I spit into the sink and rinse my mouth, and when I look up, our eyes meet in the mirror.
He’s watching me again, and there’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch.
Something that looks like want.
