Page 84 of Play Fake
Beck stands in the hallway in joggers, a plain black hoodie, and a backward cap—casual, a little messy from the night, and somehow even more distracting than usual. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and when his eyes land on me, that easy, lopsided smile spreads across his face.
“Hey,” he says, voice low in the quiet hallway.
“Hey.”
Before anyone else can poke their head out, I grab his sleeve and pull him inside. He stumbles a step, laughing quietly as I shut the door behind us.
“Eager, huh?” he teases.
“Just saving myself from being tomorrow’s floor gossip,” I shoot back, cheeks warm.
His grin deepens.
My suite isn’t big. Technically, it’s a single with a kitchenette in the corner and a tiny table with two chairs. The rest is just mybed pushed against the wall and a small dresser. No couch, no fancy living room setup. Justmy space.
I wave a hand theatrically. “Welcome to my kingdom.”
Beck chuckles, looking around. “Nice place. Your cat already likes me.”
Snickers has trotted over like she owns the joint, wrapping around Beck’s legs. He crouches to scratch her behind the ears, earning instant approval. Traitor.
“Yeah, she’s usually a good judge of character,” I say lightly, trying not to melt at how easily Beck fits in here.
I grab my laptop and plop down cross-legged on my bed, patting the space next to me. “Sorry, no couch. You’re stuck with this setup.”
He hesitates for half a second, then climbs up, sitting beside me with his back against the wall and legs stretched out. It’s not awkward, exactly…but I’mveryaware of how close we are. His shoulder brushes mine when he adjusts, and my pulse skips like an idiot.
“So,” I say, flipping through my streaming options. “Comedy? Action? Soul-crushing drama?”
“Not soul-crushing,” he says dryly. “I’ve had enough of that this week.”
“Comedy it is.”
I pick something light and silly, setting the laptop at the foot of the bed. The soft glow fills the room, painting everything in blue-white light.
For a while, we just sit like that—side by side on my bed, Snickers curled into a loaf at our feet, the outside world fading to a hum.
Beck stretches his arms behind his head, relaxing against the wall, and when he laughs at something stupid on screen, the sound hits low and warm in my chest.
I didn’t plan for tonight to feel like this. But sitting here with him, it feels…comfortable. Like we’ve been doing this for years.
About halfway through the movie, my stomach growls loud enough to break through the dialogue.
Beck glances down at me, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Hungry?”
“Apparently,” I mutter, mortified.
He chuckles and reaches for the bag of microwave popcorn I’d made earlier but forgotten on the table. He tears it open with practiced ease, pours some into the bowl on my nightstand, and sets it between us like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
We fall into an easy rhythm—passing the bowl back and forth, occasionally bumping fingers. Each brush makes my pulse jump a little more, but Beck doesn’t seem fazed. He just laughs softly when I accidentally fling a kernel onto his hoodie, flicking it back at me in retaliation.
When the bowl’s nearly empty, he leans forward, places it carefully on the floor beside the bed, and then shifts back against the wall.
And that’s when it happens.
His arm slides naturally around my shoulders, not in some practiced, flirty move, but because there’s nowhere else for it to go if he wants to get comfortable.
Still, the second it happens, my breath catches.
