Page 127 of Play Fake
She’s crying with laughter now. “Wait—stand there, I need a picture.”
“Not a chance.”
She leans back against the wall, still giggling. “Okay, fine. But seriously, go back to the black one. Because that?” Her voice lowers slightly, eyes glinting with mischief. “Maybe I’ll show you just how much I like that one later.”
My brain short-circuits.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. The way her voice drops, the way her eyes linger as she drags her gaze down my frame. My pulse jumps, heat creeping up the back of my neck.
“Uh, yeah,” I manage.
She bursts out laughing again when I spin around and beeline back into the dressing room, muttering under my breath.
A few rounds later, we circle right back to the black tux. Tailored properly, it fits like it was made for me. Sophie’s smile softens when I step out again.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “That’s the one.”
I’m not sure if she’s talking about the tux or something else entirely, but either way, it sticks with me as we head out to the truck, fingers laced together, sunlight spilling across the pavement.
Sophie’s leaning her head back, laughing so hard she can barely catch her breath as my dad gets to the punchline.
“And he’s seven years old,” Dad says, hands animated, voice carrying through the dining room. “He picks off the quarterback—first interception of his little league career—and the whole sidelineerupts. And what does he do?”
Sophie’s already giggling, shaking her head. “Oh no…”
“Hetakes off,” Dad says, grinning. “Full sprint. Perfect form. Straight to the wrong end zone.”
The entire table bursts into laughter. Caroline covers her smile with her hand, Joey and Alyssa are practically falling out of their chairs, and Sophie? She’s laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes.
“Dad,” I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “Wedon’tneed to relive this.”
“Oh, we absolutely do,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “You should’ve seen his face when his own teammates tackled him. He thought he’d broken some kind of record.”
Sophie wipes at her eyes, breathless. “I—oh my God, Beck!” She turns to me, grinning wide. “Youran the wrong way?”
“I was seven,” I mutter.
She leans toward me, eyes sparkling. “I bet you lookedso proud.”
“Oh, he did,” Dad says. “Spiked the ball and everything. Right there in the wrong end zone.”
The whole table loses it again, and I just shake my head, but honestly? Watching Sophie doubled over in laughter, cheeks flushed and happy; it’s hard to be annoyed.
Dinner settles into its usual rhythm after that—Caroline bringing out dessert, Joey and Alyssa competing for Sophie’s attention, Dad tossing in occasional teasing jabs at my expense.
Sophie fits in so easily it almost knocks the wind out of me. Alyssa ends up on her lap, showing her drawings from school; Joey’s trying to impress her with soccer stories; Dad’s already decided she’s his new favorite audience.
And through it all, Sophie keeps smiling like she belongs here.
I’m really starting to think she does.
Later, as we walk out to the truck under a star-scattered sky, Sophie slips her hand into mine, still laughing softly.
“You didn’t tell me aboutthatinterception,” she teases.
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “Shocking that I left that part out.”
She bumps my shoulder playfully. “You were cute.”
