Page 18 of Fake Shot

“I’m literally wearing a sundress, which is what people do when it’s eighty degrees and they’re going to a party.”

“You never wear dresses.” His voice is tight, like he’s annoyed or upset.

I look him up and down, noticing how his tight polo clings to every muscle in his upper body and how his belt and khakis rest on his hips, his pants showing every curve of his muscular thighs. He’s not going to this party super casual, so why is he making it sound like I’m overdressed?

“Are you ...” I’m about to ask him if he’s mad for some reason, but when I fold my arms under my chest, his eyes slide from my face down my body.Ohhh.The realization that he’s checking me out does thrilling and terrifying things to my body. “...botheredthat I’m wearing a dress?”

“Nope.” He pops the ‘p’ at the end of the word, and then reaches for the back door and holds it open for me. “I loaded all the food into the backseat of your truck.”

“Thank you. I could have helped. You didn’t have to do it when I was changing.” I’d spent most of the morning in the kitchen, and he’d helped me get all the food packed into insulated carrying bags we were going to load into my car on our way out.

“I didn’t mind.” He follows me down the steps, then reaches past me to open the rear door of my truck so I can see the food he’s carefully set up. “I still don’t understand why you did all the cooking for Drew and Audrey’s party, though. Couldn’t they just have had it catered?”

"I like to cook, so I offered.” Even from where he stands behind me, I can feel his head turn toward me, assessing. It's like his eyes are boring into the side of my head and I don't dare turn to look at him because our faces would be too close. I’m always aware of his proximity, always trying to keep some distance between us. It’s better for me that way.

"What is it that you like about cooking?" Colt asks, his voice soft and curious.

I don't know how to answer that question—it’s so innocent, and so deeply personal at the same time. I don't know how to explain that I like feeling needed. That in a time when everything in our lives was so volatile, cooking was thething I could do to contribute to our new little family once it was just Jameson, Audrey, and me. It was the way I could show my older siblings I loved them and wanted to take care of them like they were taking care of me. The bigger the meal, the more it forced us to slow down, to spend quality time together while enjoying the food I’d prepared.

“I don't know,” I say, standing there awkwardly, because there’s no way to move from the space between him and the truck door without coming much closer to him. "I've just always liked it.”

"I never really learned how to cook,” he admits.

“What do you do for food then?" I ask.

“I eat out a lot. And I'm remarkably good at making grilled cheese sandwiches."

I snort out a laugh and, without thinking, I look up at him over my shoulder. Just like I expected, our faces are way too close. His breath softly skims my skin as he exhales in surprise. And yet, he doesn’t step back; he keeps me trapped here, looking down at me like I’m a stranger and he’s trying to figure out how he knows me.

“Grilled cheese? Really?” I tease, trying to distract from the way my whole body flushes under his gaze.

"Yeah,” he says, and clears his throat. "I can make, like, 50 different variations."

“Now that I'd like to see."

“Anytime,” he says. “You've cooked for me lots of times. I'm happy to make grilled cheese for you."

It’s such a small gesture, but with his eyes on mine, it feels like he’s offering up something that he’s never given anyone. And it makes me wonder, once again, if maybe all I've seen ofhim until now is what he wanted me to see ... the same version of himself that he shows everyone else.

And then I realize that this is just wishful thinking—just me romanticizing Colt the way I used to do when I was a teenager—so I force my thoughts away from that possibility and, instead, I glance at the backseat of my car again and tell him, "I like grilled cheese.”

“Noted. Ready to go?”

“Yep.” I slip under his arm, trying to ignore the way he smells as I squeeze past him—that combination of something tangy like orange, with deep, spicy notes of clove and cinnamon. The scent is so familiar it threatens to make me forget why, for years, I’ve made sure to keep my distance.

But as I walk around to the driver’s side of the car, I take a deep breath of the heavy city air and promise myself I won’t let my thoughts drift in that direction again. I’m stronger than that now.

The first thing Colt says when he hops into the passenger seat is, “I’ll be in charge of music.” Without even asking, he plugs his phone in and taps the “Connect” option on the screen, which overrides my phone’s wireless sync and brings his apps up on my dashboard.

“We’ll be there in, like, ten minutes,” I say. “We could have just listened to the radio.”

“You have crap taste in music, Jules. No thanks.”

“What’s wrong with country and classic rock?” I ask as I wait for him to buckle his seatbelt. This is an old argument, and I’m pretty surehe’sthe one with terrible taste in music. I don’t understand how he listens to pop all the time. He also likes those crazy remixes by “famous” DJs I’ve never heard of, but it all sounds pretty much the same to me.

“I’ll play Taylor,” he says.

“Her old stuff?” I ask, hopeful. Country Taylor I can get into.

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