Page 46 of Perfectly Faked

Vale follows my gaze over to Victoria. “That’s not what your face says.”

I scowl. “What does my face say now?”

“That you don’t like what I’m telling you,” he says, his mouth curving into a smile. “Because it’s the truth.”

SEVENTEEN

victoria

“Wanna dance, honey?” a large biker asks me from the bar. He wears a red bandana like a sweatband and has on a sleeveless leather vest to show off his beefy arms.

“No, thanks, I’m tired,” I say, turning my back to him and hoping he’ll get the hint and move on.

Leo swoops in like a secret service agent and parks next to me. “Need some company?” he asks before giving the biker a dirty look.

“Sure. But for the record, you don’t need to hover over me. You think he’s going to throw me over his shoulder like I’m pirate booty?”

“Oh, he definitely wants some booty tonight,” Leo says, nodding. “And it willnotbe yours.”

I smile. “According to you, I’m good at knee-to-stomach kicks. I can take him,” I assure Leo, sliding over the basket of chicken wings Jaz ordered for the table. I’m so tired of eating kale salad and protein smoothies that I grab a chicken wing to satisfy my ravenous stomach. Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Likea Woman” starts blasting, and for a moment, I feel empowered enough to trade my jeans for cutoffs and boots.

“You might not want to eat that,” Leo warns.

“Why not?” I say, taking a big bite anyway.

Leo lifts a shoulder. “I was just trying to be a friend and warn you in advance.”

Suddenly my mouth flames with heat like I just swallowed a lit torch.

“Oh my gosh,” I choke-gasp. “It’s so . . .”

“Hot?” he finishes for me, then slides a glass of milk toward me. “I tried to warn you.”

I grab the drink and down it in one go, then reach for the water pitcher to put out my flaming lips. Without shame, I chug it straight from the pitcher because my mouth feels like it’s hosting a bonfire.

“They need a warning label on these wings,” I choke out.

“That’s the Death by a Thousand Wings sauce,” he says, as if proving a point.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask between gulps of water.

“I tried to, but you didn’t listen. Sherrie always puts a glass of milk on the table for that reason. It cools your mouth better than water.”

Sweat prickles on my chest, probably from the fiery sauce currently waging war on my insides—or maybe from the way Leo keeps watching me with those distant, calculating eyes, the ones that tell me he’s trying to be my friend andonlymy friend. Honestly, I hate it.

“If you want to go out and dance, I’ll save your seatand some wings for you,” Leo offers, leaning back, giving me permission to choose my dance partner. Just another way he’s reminding me this isnota date.

“And leave you at the table scowling?”

“Yeah, well, I like to scare small children,” Leo deadpans. When I look over, his mouth is hitched up slightly. I love it when I can make him smile just a little. It feels like a tiny victory and another mark for the smile tally.

“Okay, Mr. Grumpy, why don’t you go out there and dance with your teammates, then?” I nod toward the dance floor, where most of the team is trying—and failing—to do a new line dance.

“I don’t dance. You know that,” he says, refilling his water, avoiding looking at me.

And I do.Too well.The words sting, pulling me back to the night I made him slow dance with me under the stars. He stepped on my toes more than once, but the way he held me, the way he made me feel like nothing could ever hurt me—it didn’t matter.

The music ends, and the team streams back to the table, flushed and laughing from dancing. A pitcher of water and another round of wings arrive, along with a bucket of popcorn, courtesy of Sherrie.

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