Page 13 of False Start, Real Passion

My response: You don’t know what I want.

It’s a lie, and we both know it. But admitting the truth—that I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone—feels too dangerous, too real.

Don’t I? I think I have a pretty good idea. And I think you’re scared of how much you want it too.

My response: I’m not scared of anything. Especially not you.

Prove it then. Have dinner with me tomorrow night. Just the two of us, no pretenses.

It’s a dangerous proposition. Without the buffer of our fake relationship, without the excuse of playing a role... what’s to stop us from crossing lines we can’t come back from?

My response: Fine. Dinner. But this doesn’t change anything.

I hit send before I can change my mind, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’m playing with fire, and I know it. But some reckless, hungry part of me wants to see how long I can dance in the flames before I get burned.

We’ll see about that, sweetheart. I’ll pick you up at 7.

I toss my phone aside, burying my face in my hands. What am I doing? What am I thinking, agreeing to dinner with Jaxon?

But even as I ask myself the questions, I already know the answer. I’m thinking about the way his eyes darken when he looks at me, about the heat of his skin against mine. I’m thinking about how alive he makes me feel, how consumed I am by the desire to unravel the mystery of Jaxon Reid.

I’m thinking that maybe, just maybe, getting burned might be worth it.

Chapter five

Temptation on the Menu

Ifacemyownreflection. We’re both trying to pretend we don’t care. The woman in the mirror—poised, elegant, overdressed—is who I’m supposed to be. Red satin clings in all the wrong places, reminding me why I hate her. My other half—the one that’s a fraud—is already spiraling, flitting from stray hairs to wrinkled cushions, mind crashing through the idea of dinner like a kamikaze pilot. Tick, tick, tick goes the clock, steady as a drumbeat. Tick, tick, tick. Boom. He’ll be here in sixty seconds. The glass is not kind. One of us exhales.

I pull the neckline up, again, as if an extra inch of fabric could protect me from a six-foot-something quarterback with a permanent smirk and a reputation to match. Professional, Tori. Be professional. That’s what I repeat while I scan the living room for anything out of place, shuffling cushions that are already perfectly arranged. My apartment is more flawless than I am—thanks to an hour of cleaning and two glasses of Merlot—but even it can’t distract me from the fact that Jaxon will be at my door in twenty-five seconds. Ready for the performance of a lifetime.

What’s next on the schedule? I stare at my color-coded planner on the kitchen counter like it’s the Oracle of Delphi, ignoring the white-hot panic in my gut. Can you put “Falling for a Client” in the agenda? Maybe I should have worn the black dress. It’s more business casual, less oh-please-fake-date-me.

Fifteen seconds.

“Just dinner. Just PR.” I chant silently, like it’s my mantra. Hell, it really should be.

Nine seconds.

This isn’t a date. I’m helping him, that’s all. I grab my lipstick, and my hands shake as I twist it open. I’m a mess. A hot mess. He’s going to see right through me.

Six seconds.

I take one last look around the apartment. My shoes, like two flaming red sirens, lay by the door, mocking me with their bright intensity. I forgot to put them on.

The knock comes, just like I knew it would. Cool and confident. Just like him. Just like I’m not.

I take a deep breath, all glossy and shiny and composed—except on the inside, where I’m one minor inconvenience away from full-on meltdown mode. I remind myself that I’m a professional, that I can do this, that I will do this.

And I open the door.

He’s there. Of course, he’s there. Like he has nothing better to do than stand outside my apartment looking like a magazine ad for why bad boys finish first.

He lounges against the doorframe, all six-foot-something of arrogant quarterback draped lazily before me. He’s wearing a fitted black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His hair is slightly a mess, as if he just ran his hands through it, and his sharp blue eyes roam over me in an instant, slow enough to make my skin heat under his gaze.

“Damn, Michaels. You sure this is just dinner?”

I arch an eyebrow, trying to be nonchalant but failing miserably because nonchalance isn’t one of my strong suits, especially when he’s around. “Of course it is,” I say, mustering my best ice-queen voice, “and don’t get any ideas.”

---