Page 20 of Under the Lies

“You don’t,” he answers.

I frown. “Have you always been so insufferable?”

How did I have a crush on him?

Noah reaches into his jacket again—Jesus, is a man’s suit jacket lined with a million secret pockets?—and pulls out a vape pen.

Putting it to his lips, I’m reminded why.

Because my clichéd teenage heart loved the idea of a bad boy. And a bad boy he was. And if my treacherous heart doesn’t flutter at the sight of him taking a hit from his pen, smoke leaving out of his nose.

Dang.

It’s hot when he does that.

He smirks, tapping his finger on the paper. “Write what you want, Sayer.”

With a resigned sigh, I do.

Leaning over the table as much as I’m able with Noah’s arm still around my waist, I write the first thing to pop into my head and before I can second guess myself, I fold up the paper and leave it on the table.

I start to sit back up when Noah’s palm presses into the middle of my back, keeping me curled over the table.

Removing his hand, a piece of paper takes his place. Sharp and purposeful strokes from a pen follow, just deep enough that I can feel them through my dress. The letters, though I can’t make them out, feel etched on my skin.

Noah folds the paper up and flicks it over my shoulder.

Still bent over the table, I feel his body stretch out above me to bring my forgotten cards closer. Yet the cards are the farthest thing from my mind feeling his weight press against me.

It’s gone all too quickly as he sits back. The spell broken.

I have to focus on the cards, the game. Not just to stop focusing on Noah and how it feels to be so close to him, but because I don’t want him to win. Whatever he wrote down is going to take me out of my comfort zone.

I bite my cheek to hold in a curse as I peek at my bottom card. A nine. A freaking nine!

I try to glance at Noah’s bottom card but he barely peels up a corner. On top sits a king.

“What’s it going to be, Sayer?” His words soft in my ear, despite the challenge they hold. “Hit or stay?”

I tap the table with two fingers, afraid how my voice will sound if I try to speak right now. I take a hit.

And bust.

Noah’s hand tightens on my thigh.

Crap. “Crap,” I whisper, eyeing our bets. The only way I’m saved is if Noah busts too. Which seems unlikely.

The house always wins.

Muscles I never knew I had are tense as he chuckles, shaking my body.

Almost in slow motion he reaches for his cards.

I don’t breathe.

I don’t blink.

Noah flips his card.

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