Page 49 of Perfectly Faked

I cough, then clear my throat, before sitting up straighter. “See? I’m fine,” I say breezily.

“You don’t look fine,” he says.

“I can handle one drink.” A hiccup escapes my lips, and Leo lifts an eyebrow skeptically.

Sloan and Jaz shovel popcorn in their mouths, clearly enjoying the show at our end of the table.

The next trivia question appears on the screen.Which NFL team holds the record for the most Super Bowl appearances?

“Why does he get all the easy ones?” I mutter under my breath. A knot of anxiety tangles in my stomach.

“New England Patriots,” he answers. If Leo wins and chooses Miss Sultry Eyes, I’ll have to make a dash to the bathroom, just to avoid seeing him kiss her. Underneath, I have a feeling that’sexactlywhat he wants—to prove that if we’re going to play games, he’salwaysgoing to win.

Even if I beat him, who would I want to kiss other than Leo? My eyes sweep over the options, and all of them feel totally wrong, except for Leo. When we were dating, we’d play these games against each other just for fun. About the time I was going to lose, he’d pull me on his lap, bury his face in my hair, and forfeit our match with a string of kisses. It never occurred to me that letting me win was actually an act of love.

But the way he’s looking at me now—with a mixture of frustration and concern—I can’t figure out if he’s trying to teach me a lesson or make me pay for my stupidity.

“You’re up,” he says.

I give him a confident smile, praying for an easy question.

Which country has won the most World Cup titles?

“England!” I answer.

Sloan grimaces. Jaz covers her eyes. Jaxon sets another shot in front of me.

“Nice try, but it’s Brazil,” Rourke says.

Leo shakes his head. “Do you want to give up now? Because you can.”

“Never,” I say, holding up my half-filled glass. “I’ll go down with the ship.”

I down it like I’m the queen of lost causes. Then I slam my shot glass on the table. All the guys cheer, except Leo, who’s still watching me with that frustrated look that’s begging me to forfeit.

When his question comes up, about golf of all things, he answers it easily, and the knot in my stomach only tangles more.

“Next question, Roger,” I say.

“You mean Rourke,” Leo corrects.

“Whatever,” I say, trying not to seem like I care.

The next question is a hockey one, and I want to pull my hair out. Even though my dad is a coach, I actively avoided all things hockey because it reminded me of Leo.

Which NHL player holds the record for the most career points?

“You should know this one,” Leo says with a pleading look. It almost makes me believe he wants me to get it right. But why would he want that, when he’s playing to win?

“Are you trying to trick me?” I ask, frowning.

“Why would I trick you?”

“Because you want to win,” I say.

“I don’t want to win, Vic. Not if it means you lose.”

“What?” My stomach shifts, and my thoughts feel lodged in mud. Leo doesn’t want me to lose?

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