Page 24 of The Fake Out

“Oh.” The hallway seems to shrink. “Hi.”

I keep walking but he clears his throat. “Hazel.”

I really don’t want to, but I have to work with the guy all year. “What’s up?”

“So?” He gives me an expectant look. “This shit Miller’s saying about you being into him while we were together?”

It takes every ounce of my energy not to smile in satisfaction. “What about it?”

The innocence in my tone is Oscar-worthy, and I’m queen of the world. From the way his eyes harden, Connor isseething. I may not like Rory, but he knows exactly how to piss people off.

Connor’s jaw ticks. “Really?”

“Connor, it was years ago. Who cares?”

“Do you ever think about us?” he asks, watching me intently.

These fucking hockey players. They’re so competitive.

“No,” I lie.

He keeps watching me, and there’s a tight, nauseous feeling in my stomach. I pray he doesn’t know the truth.

“Hartley.” Rory’s in front of us, and I relax.

His arm goes around my shoulder, pulling me against him, and without meaning to, I inhale a lungful of his fresh scent.

“Let’s go home.” He uses a low, seductive voice in my ear. My blood feels slow and thick like honey when he uses that voice. “I’ll do that thing you like.”

Warmth spreads throughout me, zinging between my legs, as I picture what he could mean by that, if this were real.

I need to get out of the bar, out of Rory’s charisma splash zone, and then I can think again. “Yeah. Home. I’m getting sleepy.”

His hand slides into mine and he pulls me out of the hallway without another glance at Connor.

After saying our goodbyes to everyone, we step outside, and he whistles. “Did you see his face, Hartley?”

“Yes. God, he was so pissed.”

We leave the alley and he walks in the direction of my apartment. “You live in the West End, right?”

How does he know that? “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

He smiles over his shoulder, slipping his hands into his pockets as I catch up. “In a match between you and the toughest criminals in the city, my money’s on you every time. You’re a tiny, terrifying dragon.”

“I’m not tiny.” I’m five foot six.

“I could pick you up and throw you over my shoulder.”

“You won’t.”

His eyebrow lifts in challenge, and I feel that urge to laugh again. “I might.”

I glare up at him, but the corner of my mouth is twitching. “Walk me home, then. We’re almost there, anyway.” My words are casual, cool, and indifferent.

As we walk, he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His gaze is on the sky, at the stars floating in the inky darkness, barely visible with all the city lights.

“You were drinking water all night,” I say just to fill the silence.

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