Page 67 of Just a Little White Lie

The look on her face makes my chest hurt.

“What?” She jumps up, standing on my rumpled duvet cover and looking down at me.

I’m not used to gazing up at her, and it’s sexy on a whole different level. I shift my gaze away, my body torn between fighting my attraction and dreading the truth I just know she’s gonna get out of me.

“Jack.” She rests her hands on my shoulders and tries to move into my line of sight.

I dart my gaze away, but her pull is too much. She’s a force I can’t reckon with, and her sweet voice pulls me back to face her.

“You’re not going to do that to me. You’re seriously not that cruel.”

I sigh and mutter, “No, I’m not.”

She tips her head back in obvious relief and whispers, “Thank you.”

And then she does it. She looks at me with an expression I can’t resist.

Her voice is gentle, kind, and I know I’m done for.

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because it’s embarrassing.” I scratch the top of my head, still trying to figure a way out of this, even though I know it’s probably fruitless. “I don’t want to relive that part of my life. That… humiliation.”

She purses her lips, a flash of vulnerability working over her face.

It makes her pretty in a whole new way, and I can’t take my eyes off her.

“Is it, um… more embarrassing than being a bankrupt twenty-six-year-old who has to live with her brother and use some stupid money envelope system?”

I can’t help a snicker.

She’s too cute.

She’s just too damn cute.

“Or is it more embarrassing than writing a résumé when you’re drunk and implying you’re a dance teacher when you’re actually not and then being too ashamed to admit your deceit and having to call on the mercy of a kindhearted man to bail you out likebig-time?”

I look up at her, and it takes everything in me not to rest my hands on her hips. I want to hug her, to pull her against me and whisper the truth into her hair so I don’t have to look at her when I say it. I want her arms around me, keeping me together while I relive this pain.

She takes a small step back, dropping her arms from my shoulders, and I feel the loss immediately.

I can’t let her walk out of this room.

So I point at my bed and manage to say, “All right, fine. Take a seat.”

The bed bounces a little when she drops down onto it. I find a perch beside her, bending my leg so my knee rests against her thigh. It’s only a small connection, but it somehow seems vital.

“It was last year.” I hold my breath, then let it out.Just say it, you big coward.“I assumed you knew. I thought everybody did.”

She shakes her head, totally perplexed, and I kind of love her for it. I kind of love that I get to tell her my version and not the tainted one the media slathered me with.

“I was a dancer onDancing with the StarsAustralia.”

“Really?” Her voice pitches, her face lighting with glee. “Oh my gosh, how did I not know that?”

“I guess you were pretty wrapped up with your life in London, and it’s not like we kept in touch.”

Why does that suddenly seem like such a huge shame? Like we’ve been missing out on something awesome?

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