Page 77 of Fake Shot

“You alright?”

“Yeah, I was just in the middle of a dream, is all.”

“Yeah, there was quite a bit of moaning in that dream,” he teases.

Shit, what is wrong with me—why did I have to say that? Why couldn’t I have just said my throat hurt or something? And as much as I try not to let it happen, I can feel the flush creep up my neck and into my cheeks. He smirks at me like he knows exactly what I was dreaming about. It probably isn’t hard to figure out.

“So,” he says, “Walsh just texted, and he and Marissa have a babysitter for tonight so they're going out to dinner, and they want to know if we want to meet up for drinks afterward? Can you make that work?”

He sounds so hopeful, and the fact that hewantsme to gohas me wanting to say yes. But the responsible part of me knows I shouldn’t. It’s been a long weekend of travel, and I should unpack. Plus, I have to work tomorrow morning, and 5:30 a.m. comes at the same time every day, no matter how late you stay up the night before.

You’d probably stay up reading anyway, my brain reminds me, because it knows all about my romance book addiction and is using it against me.

“I have to work tomorrow...” I don’t finish my sentence because I can’t make myself say no, even though I know I should.

“Come on, Jules. We won’t stay out too late. We need them to believe that we’re engaged, and I’m sure my fiancée would be too smart to let me go out on my own.”

Oh.So that hopeful note in his voice wasn’t because he wanted to spend more time with me, it’s so we can keep up appearances. I shake my head at my own hopeful stupidity.

What did you expect?

“So you’re saying that you’re not trustworthy enough to be out on your own without your ‘fiancée’”—I actually use air quotes around the word to emphasize our fake status, mostly because I need the reminder myself. He doesn’t seem to have much trouble remembering that this isn’t real—“and you need me there to babysit you?”

“No, I need you there to protect me from the women who will be all over me if you’re not around.” The blasé way he says this, as if he knows women will flock to him even though they know he’s engaged...it pisses me off. I don’t know why. I’m not sure if I’m angry that other women would move in on “my man,” or if I’m pissed on his behalf thathaving to fight off women constantly is his norm. Or am I just jealous?

That’s when it hits me: this is the dynamic that he created and has played into since he was a nineteen-year-old rookie with a broken heart. He’s chosen to remain single; he’s flaunted the many women and his party persona very publicly. And he’s done it all to show Cheri and Gabriel that—whether it was true or not—he didn’t want what they had.

Now that I understand his past, everything about his fuck-boy status makes a lot more sense. But what I still don’t know is whether he actually didn’t want to be tied down, or if it was a defense mechanism to protect his heart and make it seem like he was much happier this way.

“I don’t really feel like going out,” I say, wanting to retreat to my bedroom, take care of this ache between my legs that’s left over from my dream, and then sleep until tomorrow morning. I look out the window at the back door, wanting to get inside and away from him so I can figure out what I’m feeling ...because suddenly, I’m sad. Sad for him, and sad that I had to go and fall for someone who doesn’t even want to have a real conversation about what’s happening between us, because he doesn’t think we’re “ready” for a real conversation, whatever that means. “It’s been a long weekend.”

“Tink.” He reaches across, sliding his hand around the back of my neck and gripping me possessively. I like it, and the way his thumb strokes my jaw, more than I should. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“I know it’s not nothing. I just don’t know what I did.”

“I’m just tired.” I don’t want to talk about my feelings when I’m so unsure of them myself.

“You just slept for two hours,” he says, using his fingers around the base of my skull to turn my head so I’m facing him. He eyes me like he’s trying very hard to understand me, and still can’t. Which is fine. Half the time, I don’t understand myself.

I shrug and say, “And yet I’m still tired.”

“Are you getting sick?” The concern in his voice about does me in. I need to get out of here.

I reach over for the door handle. “No, I just... I need to go inside.”

Hopping out of the car, I rush up the stairs to the back door, leaving him to bring our stuff inside.

Two hours later, I’m standing in my closet, putting the finishing touches on the new bra I just created. Now that I’ve had some time to let my emotions decompress, and to process this weekend while also working on something creative, I’m feeling centered again.

What’s happening between us still feels nebulous and uncertain, but at least I’ve figured out what he meant on that dock. He said that we both had work to do—me to learn to trust him, and him to show me he was trustworthy. That’s not something you say to someone you’re just fake dating. That’s something you say to someone youwantto build something with. But the problem isn’t really that I don’t trusthim. It’s that I don’t trustme.And that’s the part I don’t know how to get over.

As I tuck the sewing machine back down into its cabinet, there’s knocking on my bedroom door. I half expected it, and it still takes me by surprise.

When I open the door, he’s standing there in jeans and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows so thatsome of his tattoos peek out. He looks so delicious I have to gulp down my sigh.

“I’m not going out without you.”

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