Page 8 of Fake It Til You Break It

“What was that?”

“I don’t—”

“Beckett, you’re such a flirt,” he mimicked in a breathy, deeply unflattering voice.

“Mr. Ryan.” I turned to face him then, a smirk pulling at one side of my mouth. “Are you jealous?”

He responded with a sardonic sigh, but I didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched. I also noticed that he hadn’t backed away.

“Don’t be absurd.”

“You said you needed a buffer,” I reminded him. “I’m just doing my job.”

Our gazes met, and he hesitated briefly before shaking his head.

“Do less.” Then he turned and strode away.

Well, he tried, only to have his dramatic exit interrupted by another round of small talk. I didn’t recognize the couple who stopped him, and I couldn’t tell if he did, either.

From the moment the gentleman said his name, Jasper’s shoulders drew back, his chin lifted, and his pursed lips relaxed into a welcoming smile. The transition from irritatedto charming happened so smoothly it appeared effortless, but I knew how much it cost him.

I saw the hollow look in his eyes. The tension in his neck. The slight tremor in his hands. With each interaction, his social battery drained a little more, the effort to feign enthusiasm about petty gossip clearly taking its toll.

Nearing the second to last piece of art—a hastily painted black square on a chartreuse background, confusingly titledCircle—I had already started planning our exit. Before I could discuss it with my date, however, the hostess herself, Rizza Carmichael, appeared like a specter from the other side of the display pillar.

“Jasper, I’m so glad you could make it.” She wore an ingratiating smile, but she didn’t encroach on his personal space. “How are things at the center?”

Quiet and unobtrusive, I stood off to the side in the shadows, nodding in silent approval.

Widowed for nearly a decade and still unattached, I knew Rizza to be intelligent, capable, and fiercely independent. Unlike many of her peers, she hadn’t been born into money, nor had she married for it. Instead, she had fought for every rung up the social ladder of Dallas’ elite.

“Things are well,” Jasper answered with a small bow of his head. “Thank you for asking.”

“And Caleb?”

“We were able to place him with the Shermans last week.” A warm, gentle smile curved his lips. “He’s transitioning well.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Her small hand fluttered delicately around the neckline of her scarlet gown. “The Shermans are wonderful people.”

From context clues, I gathered the Shermans were fosters who worked closely with Project SafeHouse. Like Rizza, I also felt a measure of relief that the young boy had been entrusted to a good family.

Since she sponsored a program at the center, her interest in the place made sense, but her sincerity intrigued me. I hadn’t expected her to be so invested, and I sure as hell hadn’t thought she would know any of the children by name.

They spoke for another couple of minutes, mostly about current news and upcoming events. Then she thanked Jasper for his earlier bid and his ongoing support, though she never mentioned her son specifically. I didn’t know what it meant, if anything, but I found it interesting and filed it away to examine later.

Once she left to mingle with the other guests, I stepped up to Jasper’s side and placed a hand lightly against his back. “Are you ready to leave?”

Jasper sighed, and his entire being deflated. He started to sway toward me, but caught himself and pulled back atthe last second. Straightening, he rolled his shoulders and manufactured a polite expression.

“We haven’t congratulated the artist yet.”

Edwin Carmichael hadn’t moved from the bar the entire evening, sipping red wine while trying to appear broody and disinterested. I doubted he would notice our departure, but if Jasper needed to fulfill this last obligation, it was a problem easily rectified.

With my hand still on his back, I ushered him across the cavernous room to the bar area. The man of the evening cast a bored glance in our direction, but he didn’t turn, and he didn’t offer a greeting.

“Congratulations, Edwin. You must be excited.”

The little shit shrugged, but he still didn’t give him the courtesy of eye contact. “I guess.”

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