Page 30 of Playing Pretend

“Worse. He’s overly sexual, nauseatingly charismatic, and flawlessly confident.”

“You can’t fault him for being himself.”

“I can and I will.” The line falls silent, a subtle sign from my sibling to take a moment and rethink my theatrics. “He’s my closest friend, Rett, and he kissed me. I’m sure you can understand how awkward that makes things.”

“Only if you place feelings behind it. Or think he is. Is that the case?”

“Of course not.” I answer too quickly. But it’s the truth. The tingle and tumble of my insides is a residual effect of my teenage years. And Rome has never had more than surface-level sexual interest in any woman.

“Well then, the answer is simple—beat him at his own game. Hit him where it hurts.”

“I’m more than willing to whack him in the nuts. Believe me. I just don’t think it will help.”

“I’m talking about fighting fire with fire,” he drawls. “Rome might be confident when he’s the one in charge, but he sure as shit shrivels when a woman tries to take over.”

I raise a brow.

My brother could be right. Rome hates forthright women.Clingywomen.

Being the instigator might be the strategy I need to shove his cocky attitude through the shredder. “I like that idea.”

“Make the first move. Gush over him. Address him with cringy nicknames in front of a crowd.”

I start down the hall, smiling to myself as confidence infiltrates my veins. “Okay. I’ll give it a try.” I stop in front of the elevators and press the button. “Thanks, Rett.”

“Good luck.”

I disconnect the call as an elevator opens and struggle to contain my grin while I make my way to the third floor.

Rome has already thrown everything at me—kissing, touching. There are very few aces that could be left up his sleeve.

It’s my turn to swing a few punches.

I’m in a full-blown power trip by the time I enter the suite, my strut smooth, my chin overly high. But he’s not in sight to see it.

The bathroom door is closed, the shower running.

What a waste of a good strut.

I change into my swimsuit while I have the isolation, and drag on a red floral sundress over the top. I’m sitting on the bed, reading a text from Pete that gives staff a five-minute reminder about Capture the Flag, when the shower shuts off.

I’m running out of time. I need food to get me through the team-building misery.

I push from the mattress and make my way to the bathroom door, my knuckles poised to knock when Rome murmurs my name from inside.

I pause, my hand frozen an inch from the barrier between us.

Can he see my feet in the tiny slip of light under the door? Is he disregarding the suite rules by beckoning me to walk in on him, half-naked and glistening?

I’m not going to fall for it.

I can already picture him standing in front of a foggy mirror, a towel around his hips, his chest completely bare.

“Fuck, Piper.” His tone is guttural.

I stiffen.

“Piper.” There’s turmoil in his voice.

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