Page 16 of Fake It Til You Break It

“You look good when you laugh.” He spoke nonchalantly, an off-handed comment, and returned to sorting books. “You should do it more often.”

Though I still felt a flutter in my chest when he said things like that, I had gotten used to his casual flirting. As such, I no longer panicked, and in this case, I actually took offense.

“I laugh.”

“You do,” he allowed. “When you’re here at the center.”

Rising from my chair, I rounded the desk and eased a hip onto the edge of it. “That’s not true. I laugh all the time.”

“And it’s fake as hell.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and huffed. “By all means, tell me how you really feel.”

Placing a stack of books down on the coffee table, he pushed to his feet, but he didn’t approach. “Am I wrong?”

“If you’re referring to the fundraisers—”

“That you hate.”

“They’re good causes.”

Beckett took a step forward. Just one step, but the room suddenly felt smaller, suffocating.

“I’m not arguing that. You told me why you go to those parties, and I understand. Igetit, Jazz.”

Jazz? In thirty-seven years, no one had ever shortened my name like that. Personally, I kind of liked it, but I could practically hear my mother gasp with disapproval from the afterlife.

I didn’t correct him, though. Like so many things where Beckett was concerned, I let it happen, as if he had every right to call me whatever he wanted.

“I know you listen to gossip with a smile while slowly dying on the inside.” He took another step toward me. “I know you don’t like personal questions, and you’d rather throw yourself into traffic than be the focus of attention.” Another step. “Why do you care so much what those people think of you?”

I tensed, my muscles coiled tight, every cell in my body telling me to run. Instead, I remained seated on the edge of my desk, my arms folded defensively as I absorbed his words.

“And what people would that be?”

“Don’t play stupid.” He tilted his head, his eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Nervous energy coursed through me, a low vibration that made my hands shake and my voice tremble, but this time, I didn’t back down. Pushing away from the desk, I closed the distance so that I stood directly in front of him.

“Becausethose peoplekeep the lights on around here. They sponsor programs that these kids need. Because this isn’t a fun hobby or a silly game, Beckett. These are real lives, and they depend onme.” My chest heaved, and I could feel the heat spread up my neck and into my cheeks, but I kept going. “So, yes, if I have to fake a smile and kiss their Louis Vuitton’s, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

Silence stretched between us, thick and weighty. Neither of us stepped away. Neither of us broke eye contact.

“Nice speech,” Beckett said at last, his tone dry and dispassionate. “But we both know it’s not about donations. At least, not entirely. So, again, why do you care so much about what people think of you?”

“I just told you why.”

“No, you told me the socially acceptable version.” He stepped forward, forcing me back a step to avoid a collision. “How about you try the truth now?”

“People depend on me,” I repeated, though I had lost much of my conviction.

It had been the first time in recent memory I had lost my temper, and naively, I assumed he would back off after I showed a bit of teeth. Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen.

“And?” he prompted.

“And sometimes I have to make compromises because of that.” My voice wobbled, and my entire body started to shake when he forced me back another step. Then another.

“No.” He shook his head. “Youchooseto. Why?”

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