Page 97 of Make the Play

The guy gives a weird little laugh and walks out, his buddy following. Chase closes the door behind them and turns slowly to face me.

“You okay?” I ask, lifting a brow as he walks back to the counter.

“I brought you your usual,” he says, ignoring the question and sliding the coffee across to me.

“Thanks.”

He leans a hip on the island. “So… mattress guys, huh?”

“What about them?”

“Just wondering if I need to start vetting every man who walks through my front door.”

I sip my coffee. “Relax. They carried a mattress, didn’t propose marriage.”

“Still seemed eager to flirt.”

I shrug. “I’m charming to everyone.”

His grin kicks up slowly. “Yeah, but not everyone gets to christen the mattress.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Chase just shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee. “You started it. Flirting with delivery guys under my roof.”

I narrow my eyes. “I wasn’t flirting.”

“They were undressing you with their eyes, Zo.”

“You’re actually insane.”

His eyes flash as he leans in just a fraction. “I’m just protective of my investments.”

“Yourwhat?”

He clinks his mug to mine. “My hot girlfriend.”

I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle I don’t sprain something. But I’m smiling as I take another sip, and for the first time, I don’t correct him.

Because somewhere along the way, fake has started feeling a bit more real.

Chapter twenty

The most dramatic death scene in Denver’s bowling alley parking lot history

Chase

The second I step into the apartment, I know something’s off. Not in a bad way, just different. Quiet. No music blasting through the speakers and no reality TV echoing from Zoe’s room. Just the faintest hum of the AC and the vanilla from her shampoo lingering in the air.

It’s been a week since she moved in.

One weird, electric, tension-filled week. We exist in the same space now. Orbiting. Passing like ships most days, circling each other in the mornings, eating leftovers in the evenings, throwing jabs across the kitchen, pretending we don’t notice the way tension coils tighter every time our shoulders brush.

But I noticeeverything. The curve of her lip when she smirks, and the way she hums when she’s focused. How she falls asleep on the couch in one of my hoodies, always looking soft and too fucking tempting. I’ve been sitting on the edge of a goddamn cliff every single day, trying not to fall headfirst into her.

And even though we’re fake dating, fake living together, fake not-tearing-each-other-apart, none of it feels fake when she looks at me like I mean something. Or how close I get to reaching for her every time she walks by in those tiny shorts she likes to pretend she doesn’t know are ruining my life.

But I won’t be the one to cross the line. If she wants something, if she wantsme,she’s going to have to make that move. Because if I ever touch her the way I want to again, I won’t stop.

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