Page 83 of Play Fake
Beck: maybe a little. but I still wanted to see you.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, heart thudding against my ribs. It’s so him—not flowery, not trying too hard. Just honest in that quiet way that gets under my skin.
Well… I’m in pajamas now. So unless I do a superhero quick change, I probably won’t make it to the party.
Beck: pajamas, huh? bold Friday night move.
I roll my eyes even as I smile.
Some of us didn’t spend the night getting tackled by 300-pound linemen.
Beck: fair. my body feels like it got hit by a truck.
That’s football, right?
Beck: yeah. still wish I’d seen you after, though.
I suck in a breath, warmth flooding my chest.
You could see me now?
The three little dots appear almost instantly.
Beck: yeah? where?
I glance down at my towel, then at the pajamas folded on my bed, and let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh at myself.
Do you want to come here? It’s quieter. You’ll be getting the no makeup and wet rat look, but as long as you agree not to judge, we can watch a show or something.
Beck: sounds better than a loud, overly packed house with football players hitting the drinks extra heavy tonight.
My heart does a little swoop at how casually he says it, like the idea of seeing me like this—quiet, unpolished—doesn’t faze him at all. I quickly type out my response, but my fingers hoover for just a second longer before hitting send.
I’m on the first floor. Room 1323. It’s a suite, so you can bring food to heat up or whatever if you need to. I don’t have much, but the popcorn I got the other day did say it was gluten-free.
Ever since I grabbed him that sandwich earlier this week, I couldn’t help but start looking at the labels of things when I was in the store. They even make apps that you can scan the barcode of the item, and it pops up if it’s gluten-free or not, including telling you if it’s safe enough for those with celiac or if it’s at risk for cross-contamination.
My phone vibrates again.
Beck: on my way.
I stare at the screen, towel slipping a little further down my shoulder as the reality sets in. Beck. Coming here.Now.
Scrambling off the bed, I throw on my pajamas in record time—soft shorts and an oversized PCU sweatshirt—and yank my damp hair into a loose braid. Snickers watches from her throne on the pillow, tail flicking like she knows something’s up.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I whisper, cheeks warm. “It’s just Beck.”
Just Beck.
Except nothing about the way my heart’s beating feelsjustanything.
28
SOPHIE
The knock is soft, but it still makes me jump.
I smooth my braid over one shoulder, glance around the room to make sure nothing mortifying is lying around, then crack the door open.
