Page 57 of Playing Pretend

“You better believe it.” Rome leans in for another one of those chaste yet explosive kisses to my hairline. “I won’t be letting her go.”

Yes, he will. I need to keep reminding myself of that, no matter how flawless his charade.

“I’m happy for you both.” Pete walks forward to clap Rome on the shoulder. “I need another drink. Anyone else want one?”

I shake my head. “No, thanks.”

“I’m good.” Rome pulls me closer into his side, as if sensing my need for space and blatantly defying it.

It isn’t until my boss is out of earshot that I wiggle myself from Rome’s hold. “You’ve chosen a different tactic tonight.” I scope the crowd, praying for a glimpse of Cassidy so I can send out an SOS. “Still shocking, yet more on the subtle side.”

“I’m not trying to shock you.”

“No?” I raise a brow. “So the Bellefont revelation was for what reason?”

He throws back the remainder of his scotch in one swallow. “Because I still hate what that asshole did to you today and thought a compliment might help… But that horrified look on your face is leading me to believe I’ve made another wrong move.”

“It’s not horror.” It’s bewilderment. Confusion.

“Then what is it?” He turns to me, the dark depths of his eyes twinkling from the overhead lights. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I thought you could read my mind?”

He takes painfully long moments to peer into my soul. To make me feel like he’s right inside my chest, his heart beating in time with mine. “I guess this weekend’s events have messed with my abilities.” He reaches out, guiding the loose strands of my braid behind my ear. “You’re throwing me for a loop.”

“The feeling’s mutual.” I bite my bottom lip, my breath catching when his gaze lowers to trek the movement. He stares at my mouth, relentless, until I reclaim his attention with a harsh clearing of my throat. “This is getting messy.”

“Are you still second-guessing your participation in the challenge?”

“Never,” I lie.

Two more nights.

Two more heated, punishing nights.

He reaches for my hair again, this time slower, more delicately as he guides the strands behind my ear with agonizing lethargy. “You’re skittish.”

Yes. Every nerve is on edge. Every heartbeat fractured. “Am I?”

“You know you are. Tell me why?”

Because the world disappears under his gaze. There’s no sound other than the drum of my pulse. No scent apart from his aftershave and the sweet alcohol on his breath.

“Maybe I’m beginning to worry about what will happen when you fall in love with me?” I grin, acting coy.

“Who says I haven’t already?” His expression doesn’t change. The smug confidence I expect doesn’t tweak his mouth.

It’s an act. A game of chicken he plays far better than I do.

“I’m not going to quit, Rome. You’re stuck with me until Sunday.”

Finally, his lips kick at one side. “Good.”

Is it though?

I’ve reached sensory overload and he’s not even affected.

My mouth won’t quit tingling. My heart is practically singing Disney melodies.

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