Page 84 of Fake Shot

My laugh is muffled because I’m pressing my lips together to stop the scoff from escaping. Taking care of others has been my entire life. It’s my love language, but sometimes I do wonder: who’s taking care of me?

“You don’t,” he insists. “You’re always so busy helping everyone else, doing things for other people, sharing your strength so they can be strong too. It’s okay to let people help you, too. Not because you can’t do things yourself, but so that you don’t always have to.”

His words remind me of what he said after my confrontation with my dad a few mornings ago. It brings tears to my eyes, making me feel uncomfortably vulnerable. I’m way too keyed up sexually to be having an emotional or meaningful conversation like this. So I do what I always do, I deflect. “Right now, the only thing I need help with is an orgasm to take the edge off.”

“Wow,” he says, barking out a laugh. “Way to slow roll right into the whole using me for sex thing this morning.”

“Listen, I have to leave for work in”—I raise my head to look at my alarm clock, which is on the other side of him. Shit, I still have well over an hour, which is way more timethan I actually need—“not too long. So if you’re not going to help me take care of this problem right now, I guess I’ll have to do it myself.”

“By all means,” he says with a smirk.

“Awesome.” It’s spoken with all hard edges and bitterness. Of all the things he wants to help me with, why can’t this be one of them? “I’m hopping in the shower. I’ll leave the door unlocked, in case you change your mind.” I roll out of bed and pad toward the bathroom.

“I’m not going to change my mind,” he calls out. And just for that, I leave the door open a crack. He can listen to the fucking orgasm that I have to give myself because he’s being obstinate about us having sex, or he can leave. Either way, I’m going to prioritize taking care of myself.

Chapter Thirty-Two

COLT

She literally has no idea how hard this is for me.

Which is probably for the best, honestly. She’s wrapped herself around my heart so tightly it actually hurts. It might be because it’s the first time in the last fifteen years that I care about someone, but I’m determined to take it slow with her.

Achingly, painfully slow, apparently.

For me, this isn’t about sex. And I can’t move forward with her until I know it’s not just about sex for her, too. I don’t want her to use me so she can checklose my virginityoff her list. But I absolutely will be the first—and hopefully last—man she ever sleeps with. As soon as she finally figures out why she wantsmeto be her first and is willing to be honest about it.

As I listen to Jules turn on the shower, I grab my phone and re-read the text messages Jameson and I exchanged last night after she fell asleep.

Colt

Got the name of that investment guy Jules had dinner with.

Jameson

How’d you manage that?

Colt

She was drunk. . . .

Jameson

You let her get drunk? Do you not remember what happened last time?

Colt

Don’t worry, I took good care of her.

Last night, I watched the dots appear, then disappear, as he typed. I imagined he was typing something about how I was supposed to be taking care of her last time, too. I know we’re past that, but we wouldn’t be if he knew the real reason it all happened. Just as I was giving up hope that he’d reply, his message came.

Jameson

Name, please. I will have Derek get us more info.

Jameson’s personal assistant, Derek, is a man of many talents—and getting Jameson exactly the intel he needs is one of his specialties.

Colt

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