Page 64 of Fake As Puck
But I don’t think so. I think it’s brand new by the look of the material. I don’t even think the thing has been through the washer or the dryer.
“I like it. It looks good on you.”
“Thanks.”
She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t give me the kind of playful response I’m used to getting from her. Just a simple thank you and then she’s changing the subject to something else.
Throughout dinner, I catalog every detail about her like I’m studying for a test.
The way she twirls her pasta instead of cutting it. The fact that she’s wearing lip gloss that makes her lips look fuller than I remember. The gold bracelet on her wrist that catches the light when she gestures.
The way she listens when I talk, like she’s really paying attention but also holding something back.
I keep my distance physically. No casual touching, no leaning in too close, no letting my fingers brush hers when I reach for the wine bottle.
But emotionally? I’m a mess.
Because she’s sitting across from me looking like a goddamn dream, and I can’t tell if she’s happy to be here or if she’s just doing a really good job of pretending.
“You’re being very polite,” she says over dessert, and there’s something in her tone that I can’t quite read.
“Polite?” I question because I’m thinking the same thing about her.
She nods, meeting my eyes. “Yeah. Very... courteous. Gentlemanly.”
“Is that bad?”
“No, it’s just not the same.”
She’s calling me out, so I say, “Not the same, how?”
She twirls more noodles on her fork. “I don’t know. You seem more formal than last time.”
“Me?” I almost laugh.
“Yeah. Like you’re trying really hard to be the perfect host.”
She’s not wrong. I am trying to be the perfect host. I’m trying to be professional and appropriate and everything I should be with someone who’s being paid to be here.
“I’m just trying to make sure you’re comfortable,” I say.
“I’m comfortable.”
“Good. Are you? Comfortable,” I say.
I look at her across the table, beautiful and familiar and somehow completely different than she was three weeks ago, and realize that comfortable is the last thing I am.
I note the rise in her chest like she’s sucking in a silent breath. The way she swallows, hiding behind her hand as she nods at me.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m always comfortable with you.”
My eyes glance down at the food on my plate because I’m not good. I’m sitting across from someone I can’t stop thinking about, trying to pretend I don’t notice how incredible she looks or how much I’ve missed her voice or the way she makes everything feel lighter just by being in the room.
I’m trying to maintain professional boundaries with someone who makes me want to forget what professional boundaries even are.
“Ready to head back?” I ask when we finish dessert.
“Sure.”
