Page 92 of Fake As Puck
It doesn’t work.
I try lifting, but I can’t focus on form or reps or anything except the fact that Liv is upstairs in my house, and we’re not pretending anymore, and I have no idea what comes next.
I try running on the treadmill, but that just gives my brain more time to replay every moment from last night on loop.
I try stretching, but every position reminds me of how she felt pressed against me.
After an hour of the most useless workout of my life, I give up and head back upstairs.
I find her standing at the island, looking through takeout menus, and she’s changed into shorts and a t-shirt that somehow looks better than the sundress.
“Hungry?” she asks without looking up.
“Yeah.”
“Thai or Chinese?”
“Whatever you want.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Thai.”
She orders while I lean against the counter and try not to stare at her legs. Or her mouth. Or the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating.
Try and fail.
“Food’ll be here in forty-five minutes,” she says, hanging up.
“Okay.”
She licks her lips and then bites them. “So, what did you do while I was unpacking?”
“Worked out.”
Her eyebrows raise like she’s impressed. “Good workout?”
“Terrible workout. Couldn’t focus.”
“Ah.” She clicks her tongue.
“Yeah.”
We’re standing on opposite sides of the kitchen island, and the space between us feels charged. Like there’s electricity in the air.
“Liv?” I murmur.
“Yeah?” she says softly.
“Come here. You’re too far away.”
“Should we take things slow?” she asks.
“This is slow,” I answer. “It’s slower than what I want to do.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Really?” She walks around the island slowly, deliberately, and when she’s close enough to touch, I reach for her.
“What do you want to do?” she dares to ask.
