Page 53 of Faking it with the Damaged Silver Fox

Her eyes land on me, and I watch with a twinge of regret as she channels her expression. It’s a careful guarding—I can see her shoulders rise, her brows pull together, her mouth smoothing out.

Having seen the way Laura looks without the professional glaze of insecurity, it’s difficult to see her like this.

“Hi, Laura,” I say, gesturing for her to take a seat. She slides in the booth across from me. Her hair bounces, and her eyes dart down.

“David,” she nods at me once, like we’re at a business meeting.

Maybe we are.

“Thanks for coming.”

She nods again.

I wish I had ordered a drink already.

Laura looks around. “This is a nice place.”

It’s a peace offering. I grab it like a lifeline.

“Yes,” I agree quickly. “Yes, it has a nice… Manhattan?”

I don’t remember what she drinks. I don’t remember if I ever knew.

She nods, looking neither pleased or displeased. I can’t tell if she likes Manhattans.

“So—”

“I’ll order!”

I jump up and cross to the bar. My forehead is starting to sweat.

I know I invited Laura here, that I asked her to meet with me. But now that she’s here, I just need a bit more time. I’m not ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to talk about this.

It’s… awkward. Uncomfortable. I’m full of guilt and annoyance and something far, far worse—regret.

I wish that this wasn’t a game. I wish that we weren’t lying.

I order two Manhattans and a martini, just in case. I drum my fingers on the bar top while I wait. I think I can feel Laura’s eyes on me, but I’m far too nervous to check.

God. What have I gotten myself into?

I keep thinking about my kid’s face when she asked me if she was my Ariel. I don’t know why I said yes—maybe because no would have felt terrible. It would have been terrible to saythat she saw me kissing a woman that didn’t matter. And, too, it would have been terrible to say—even just kind of—that Laura is a woman who doesn’t matter to me. That’s just not true.

I don’t know what I feel about Laura, outside of that guilt and annoyance and regret, but it’s certainly not that she doesn’t matter to me.

The problem, really, when boiled all the way down, is how much she does.

When there’s no more reason to wait, I take our drinks back. Laura’s brows are quirked, her mouth slanted.

“Done?” she asks wryly.

I smile sheepishly. “Yeah.”

I pass her the martini and the Manhattan. She doesn’t reach for either.

“I think we should discuss this… situation.” The words come out stilted. She sits with a straight back and clear expression, just like at work. This is the most I have ever felt like her boss.

“That sounds like a great idea,” she says.

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