Page 85 of Faking the Pass
“He’s pretty impressive,” I agreed.
Presley picked up a knife and started slicing the pear he’d washed, the blade clacking loudly on the cutting board with each downward press.
“I always wished I could win—at anything—even Monopoly,” he said. “Not a chance.”
“Of course he won. He was older and bigger,” I said.
Presley shook his head vigorously. “Nah, it was the same story, even when we grew up, and I sized up to match him.”
“He set college records that may never be broken.”
Presley gestured with the knife in his hand. “And then he became a Navy SEAL and ran around the globe saving lives and doing heroic shit. When he left that, he started an elite security company that’s made him richer than any of us will ever be. Andthenhe married a world-famous pop star. No matter what I do, I’ll never live up to Wilder.”
This unexpected glimpse at Presley’s childhood wounds and insecurities tugged at my heart. I’d always seen him as an uber-confident alpha male, the master of his domain, pretty much perfect in every way.
All the while, he’d been going through life feeling second best, like no matter what he did, it would never be enough.
I wanted to climb over the counter and wrap myself around him, soothe the hurt little boy that still resided deep within him. But of course I didn’t.
“You’re incredibly accomplished in your own right,” I argued. “And noteveryone’smore impressed with Wilder.”
“Right. Are you telling me you and all your friends weren’t swooning over him back in high school?” he asked with a bitter edge to his voice.
“Yes. That’s what I’m telling you. I barely noticed him.”
Because all I could see was you.
“I don’t think you see yourself very clearly,” I said. “You’ve played in the NFL for twelve years. You’re incredibly successful at it and famous. You’ve won how many Superbowls?”
“Seven.”
“And you’ve made more money than you could probably ever spend, based on what I’ve seen of your lifestyle,” I said. “I’m sure you could afford to buy your own island if you wanted to. If you do, I recommend building a house with more than one bedroom.”
His gaze snapped up to mine.
I shouldn’t have said it. Now we were both thinking about ourclose encounterthis morning.
“Sorry about, uh… crowding you this morning in the bed,” Pres said. “I’m used to having a king-sized mattress to myself. I guess I tend to use the whole thing without being aware of it.”
“Oh, it was no problem. I didn’t even notice,” I lied. “I was dead to the world.”
“Me too. Feeling great now, though. I think the tropical heat and saltwater are gonna be good for my shoulder.”
His surgical scar, which I’d seen a few times before, was looking remarkably better, and he seemed to be using his right arm without pain. Of course he was probably in the top point-oh-oh-one percent of humans on the planet physically, so whywouldn’the be healing like a superhero?
He offered me some of the sliced cheese, which he’d put on a plate with several slices of pear and what looked like prosciutto.
“Thanks.”
I stacked the fruit, cheese, and ham into a little sandwich and took a bite, trying not to think about how attractive Presley’s hands were, big and masculine with veins running across the backs under skin that already looked bronzed from one morning out in the sun.
As he sliced more cheese and ham for himself, the muscles in his forearm flexed almost hypnotically.
“So, what should we do today?” he asked, completely unaware of my inappropriate thoughts. “Want to go snorkeling? Or I saw some paddle boards down by the dock if you’d rather do that.”
“I think we should draw up a contract,” I blurted.
It was something I’d started thinking about on the plane ride here. If we were going to successfully pull off this fake marriage thing, there should probably be some ground rules.
