Page 65 of Make the Play

“You always look good, Carlson.” His voice drops just enough to make it worse. “But you could’ve at least warned me you were gonna make it this hard to behave.”

My stomach does something deeply inconvenient, and on instinct, I fold my arms. “If you need a second to collect yourself, just say that.”

He snorts. “Trust me, sweetheart. I could collect myself all night.”

“That better not be a masturbation joke.”

His grin widens. “‘Course not.”

Liar.

I roll my eyes, pushing past him to get my coat. “Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”

Chase’s smirk lingers, but there’s too much truth in it now.

“Try not to fall in love with me, Zo.”

I scoff, stepping out first. “Not in this lifetime, Walton.”

***

The flash of cameras blinds me, a thousand tiny needles stabbing through the night. It’s disorienting, like stepping into a war zone where the only weapons are flashing bulbs and the gnawing hunger of the press.

I barely have time to register it before Chase’s fingers slide between mine with an easy and practiced grip. He waves with all of his stupidly perfect white teeth and charm, as if we’re on a damn movie premiere carpet.

“Smile, Zo,” he hisses through his teeth, tugging me closer. “We’re supposed to be in love, remember?”

I grit my jaw, lips curling into the fakest smile known to man. “If we’re supposed to be in love, then why do I feel like I’mslowly being poisoned?”

He tilts his head toward me and laughs like I’ve just whispered something delightful and sexy in his ear, and the cameras eat it up.

“You’ve got such a way with words. It’s why I love you so much.”

I resist the very real urge to elbow him in the ribs as his warm hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the restaurant entrance.

“Keep it up, Walton,” I mutter. “I’m sure Pulse will love the headline:Chase Walton’s Fake Girlfriend Murders Him with a Butter Knife Before the Appetizers Arrive.”

I mean it, every word, of course I do. But this man just laughs again. The fucking audacity.

Then, with one last obnoxious pageant wave, he steers me through the restaurant doors. The weight of flashing lights gives way to the warm hum of hushed conversations, candlelight flickering over polished wood, and pressed linen. The cameras stay outside, the stares inside don’t.

Chase, ever the poster boy, is still smiling like this is the best night of his life. I, on the other hand, am two seconds away from launching him into the nearest bread basket.

We’re led to a table near the back, secluded in a way that finally lets me exhale. After pulling my chair out for me, he settles in across from me in that casual, lazy way that only an infuriatingly confident man can be.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” His eyes sparkle with that familiar mischief, the kind that lets me know he’s enjoying getting under my skin.

I shoot him a glare. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“What’s not to enjoy? Great food, great company,” he says, winking. “And the media already thinks Chaz is the next power couple.”

“Power couple?” I snort, flipping through the menu. “Please, if you think Chaz sounds like anything more than a name for a labradoodle, you’re delusional.”

He smirks as he leans back in his chair. “Come on, Zo. You’ve gotta admit, we make a good team. You, with your charm and wit—”

“And you with your complete lack of self-awareness.”

His grin widens. “Exactly.”

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