Page 3 of Faking All the Way
“Holy shit. Isn’t that him right now?”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. I turn in slow motion, already knowing this is going to be spectacularly bad, and?—
Oh.
Oh no.
Striding through baggage claim like he owns the entire airport is Asher Vaughn. The actual, real-life, devastatingly attractive professional athlete I just claimed to be dating.
In person, he’s even more overwhelming than his highlight reel suggested. Taller, broader, radiating the kind of controlled power that makes the air around him seem to vibrate with potential energy. His dark coat stretches across shoulders that speak of years spent training his body into a weapon, and even from this distance I can see the sharp focus in his expression as he scans the carousel.
He looks tired, maybe a little irritated, but in that brooding antihero way that somehow makes him even more attractive. Like he’s starring in his own personal action movie and everyone else is just background extras.
This cannot be happening. What are the actual mathematical odds?
Astronomical. And not in my favor.
“Well?” Daniel glances from me to Asher and back, looking confused and just a little suspicious. “Aren’t you going to say hello to your boyfriend?”
Maya watches with obvious fascination, and I can feel other passengers starting to take notice. Someone’s definitely recognized him—I catch a teenager pretending to take a selfie while obviously filming. Whispered conversations are breaking out around us like wildfire.
My heart pounds against my ribs hard enough to crack bone. I have exactly two options: admit I’m a pathetic liar and watch Daniel’s smugness reach nuclear levels before I melt into the airport floor, or…
Lean into the absolute chaos.
I’ve made worse decisions in my life. Probably. Maybe not quite this publicly catastrophic, but still.
Besides, how hard can it be? Pretend for thirty seconds, wave goodbye to Daniel and the woman he’s decided is “marriage material,” then get out of this airport and put the whole thing behind me. Easy.
I take a deep breath that does nothing to calm my racing pulse, square my shoulders like I’m heading into battle, and start walking toward Asher Vaughn.
Each step feels like wading through quicksand. I’m deeply aware of Daniel’s gaze laser focused on my back, of the harsh fluorescent lighting overhead, and of the fact that I’m about to accost a complete stranger who happens to be a professional athlete.
Stranger things have probably happened to him. Right?
Please, god, let stranger things have happened to him.
Chapter Two
Kat
As I close the distance between us, more striking details come into sharp focus. There’s a thin scar cutting through his left eyebrow that somehow makes his ridiculous good looks even more compelling, giving him a slightly rugged, dangerous air. His hands disappear into the pockets of what’s obviously an expensive winter coat, and I catch a glimpse of long fingers and broad, callused palms.
His scent hits my nostrils when I’m still three feet away, something smoky, woodsy, and warm. I don’t know if it’s cologne or aftershave, but it smells expensive and amazing, just one more reminder that this man is a sports celebrity.
This is certifiably insane.
I should pivot, flee, fake a medical emergency,anythingbut continue this collision course with disaster.
“Asher!” My voice emerges steadier than I would’ve guessed, considering my internal organs are currently rearranging themselves. “Babe! You made it after all.”
He turns at the sound of his name, and sweet mother of god, his eyes up close are absolutely lethal. Blue-gray like storm clouds over the ocean, framed by dark, thick lashes. Confusion passes across his angular features as he takes in this random woman who just called him babe in the middle of Maplewood Regional Airport’s baggage claim.
But I’m already committed to this spectacular train wreck, moving into his personal space like I belong there. My arms circle his waist in what I pray looks like a girlfriend’s enthusiastic welcome rather than a textbook kidnapping attempt.
He’s solidly built beneath my hands, all hard muscle and broad-shouldered strength. For one heart-stopping moment, he goes rigid, and I can feel the coiled tension in his frame as if he’s debating whether to jerk away from me or call for help.
I press my face against his chest, breathing in that addictive masculine scent, and mentally broadcast every prayer I know.Please understand. Please just go with this. Please save me from dying of mortification in front of my smug ex-boyfriend.
