Page 53 of Fake Shot

“Colt,” I say, putting a hand on his chest to keep a little distance between us. “You can’t keep saying you don’t want me, then acting like you do.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want you, Jules. I said I couldn’t have you. The difference between those two things is enormous.”

“That’s not fair to me.” I’m determined not to be strung along like this. “You’re saying one thing but doing another. It’s confusing, and it’s frustrating.”

“You don’tseemfrustrated.” His knuckles graze my jawline as he traces a path from my chin toward my ear, and at first, I lean into his touch. Then, remembering that this can only lead to even more frustration, I tilt my face away so his hand falls, but instead of lowering it completely, herests his fingertips over my collarbone and his palm against my cleavage. I’m sure he can feel the way my heart is pounding, because his lips curve up at one corner into a smirk.

“Mybodyis frustrated, Colt. You’re toying with me like this is some sort of cat-and-mouse game. It’s one thing to put on a show when we need to convince people.” I glance around this waiting area and there’s no one we even know left here. We could easily be standing side by side and no one would question whether we were together. “But what’s this? Right now?”

“This is me, wanting to be close to you.”

“That’s not howfakeworks,” I remind him quietly. I’m too frustrated to stop myself from saying something, even if it means I might reveal too much.

Leaning his face a fraction of an inch closer, his lips ghost over my forehead as he speaks. “How does it work, then?”

“You touch me only when absolutely necessary.”

“Define absolutely necessary. Because this feels pretty damn necessary to me.”

“No, absolutely necessary is only when other people are around. Only when we need to sell this engagement as real.”

He shrugs. “Sorry, I am who I am.”

“Yeah, well, I am who I am, too. And I don’t let guys touch me and get me all ...” I search for the right word, but Colt beats me to it.

“Turned on?”

“Sure. I don’t let guys get me all turned on if they don’t plan to do anything about it.” I say this as though I’ve ever moved beyond kissing someone.

“Do youwantme to do something about it?” His voice is aseductive sound that curls around me. He sounds both hopeful and dubious at the same time.

I remind myself not to reveal too much. “Colt, I don’t even know if you’re asking that question seriously. All I know is, you’re too good at faking it.”

“I told you last night that I wasn’t faking the way I want you.”

“You also said you couldn’tdoanything about it,” I say, my voice firm as I remind him that he was the one who said this was a bad idea. “But you never even asked me what I wanted, Colt. You’re acting like this is all about you and your feelings. What about mine?”

His hand slides up from my chest to snake around my neck, pulling me closer as he dips his chin so that his lips meet my ear, and in that low, deep voice of his, he asks, “What is it you want, Jules?”

There’s a moment when I consider being honest, telling him how much my body craves his. My pulse increases as I imagine us going home and not going our separate ways once we were there. We would be absolute fire in the bedroom, I’m certain of it with every fiber of my being. I want to know what it would be like to be with him in that way.

But that’s all it would ever be with him ... just physical. I’d be just another woman he’d fucked. Then at the end of the season, he’d cast me aside, like he has with every other woman who’s shared his bed. It’s what we’d agreed to earlier, and I’m not sure I could go back to being friends after sleeping with him.

Keeping my voice hushed, I tell him, “I want you to respect the agreement we had, and the promise you made toJameson. This is only for appearances, and you’ll only touch me when absolutely necessary.”

My hand still rests on his chest, and I use it to create a little more space between us. When he’s pressed up against me, his hand over my heart or curled around my neck, I can’t focus on anything but him. I need distance so I can think clearly. Based on his expression, he’s not only surprised but also ... disappointed?

“You’re probably right,” he says.

“Excuse me, sir,” the valet says as he taps Colt on the shoulder, “your car.”

Colt hands the guy a folded-up bill as he takes the key, then he guides me to the passenger side, where he opens the door for me, hands me my seatbelt once I’m seated, leans in, and says, “There’s a photographer about half a block down, so try to look like you like me, yeah?”

I keep my head tilted up toward him as my eyes flick to the left, looking down the block. And sure enough, a guy stands there with a camera and a telephoto lens pointed right at us. What the hell? In general, hockey players are not famous enough that the paparazzi follow them around. But maybe there’s more interest in our engagement than I thought?

My eyes flick back toward Colt just in time to notice that his face is only inches from mine and descending quite quickly. But he doesn’t move in for the kiss I’m expecting. Instead, he cups my jaw in one hand while kissing my forehead gently, and then he’s stepping back and shutting my door.

Ispend the short ride back to my house debating the merits of having a frank conversation with Colt about why this is hard for me. He has to know I used to have a crush on him, but maybe he doesn’t know the extent of it, and I’m sure he thinks I’m long over it.

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