Page 70 of Faking All the Way
“You don’t have to do that.” I reach out to stop him, but he’s already taking the wrapped ornament from the vendor.
“It’ll look nice on the tree,” he says, reaching over to tuck it carefully into his coat pocket.
Something flutters in my stomach at the casual way he said it, like it’sourtree. Which I guess it is, since we’re both staying at Samantha’s property for the holidays, and he helped pick it out and decorate it. But still, it hits me in a way I didn’t expect it to.
I look down at the pocket he tucked it into, not quite sure what to say or how to interpret the gesture. “Thanks. That’s really sweet of you.”
“Of course. I mean, it’s the holiday season, after all.” He shrugs, and I wish like hell that I could guess what he’s thinking.
I try to enjoy the rest of the market as we keep wandering the booths, I really do. The festive holiday atmosphere and the cheerful music are things I’ve always loved about coming here since I was a kid. But I’m way too distracted. I can hardly pay attention to any of it anymore, can’t appreciate the beauty or the joy around us. My mind keeps wandering, my focus keeps drifting.
All I can think about is Asher. The way he’s kept touching me all evening, whether it’s a hand on my back, his fingers threaded through mine, or his body positioned protectively between me and the crowd when people rush past.
At first, I thought maybe it was because we’re in public, that’s he’s putting on a little extra just to really sell our fake dating thing… but it feels like something else.
It feels like he can’t stop touching me, like he’s physically pulled toward me the same way I am to him. Like he’s hungry for more contact, more closeness. Every time there are a few seconds where we’re not touching, his hand finds its way back to me. My back, my elbow, my hand.
It’s driving me out of my mind. Everything else seems like a blur, until there’s only the weight of his hand on my hip or the way his thumb sometimes traces small circles without him seeming to realize he’s doing it.
“I’m about ready to go home,” I finally say, blurting the words out in a way that seems to startle him.
It’s almost dark now, the sun setting early the way it does in December. The market lights glow brighter against the darkness, creating pockets of golden warmth in the cold night.
Asher looks down at me, his gaze searching my face. “Okay. You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you too cold?” His hand comes up to my shoulder, concern filling his handsome features.
“Oh, no.” I’m still wearing his jacket, wrapped in his warmth and his scent, which is only adding to the silent torture. “I’m just… ready to go.”
He nods, giving me another one of those loaded looks I can’t interpret, as if he knows exactly why I want to leave, and it has nothing to do with being tired or cold.
“Did you drive?” he asks as we start heading toward the parking area.
“No, I walked. It was nice on the way here, but I didn’t really think about the way back, to be honest.”
“It’s fine. I’ll drive you back.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
We head to his car, and the walk through the thinning crowd feels endless. I really need to get home, take the coldest showerI can manage, and then… god, I don’t even know what. I don’t know what it will take to extinguish the low level arousal that’s been simmering inside me all damn day.
When we finally get into Asher’s rental and he starts the engine, letting it warm up, the silence feels suffocating.
It’s as if all the oxygen is being sucked out of the air, shrinking the space inside the car down to nothing. If there was a small unspoken thing between us this morning, something we were both carefully ignoring, now it feels huge. Massive. Like there’s no room for anything else in the cramped confines of the car.
He pulls out of the parking lot and heads toward the cabin, and neither of us speaks. The only sounds are the engine, the heater blowing warm air, and the low sound of the music coming through the speakers.
My hands twist in my lap, my heart racing. I don’t know what to do, what to say. Part of me wants to pretend nothing happened, that last night was just a weird moment we can move past. But is this what it’s going to be like for the rest of the holidays if we try to ignore it? Because I don’t think I can handle that.
When we pull up outside the cabin, he turns off the engine, but neither of us moves. The silence stretches, heavy and thick, as we sit in the darkened car.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. The words burst out of me before I consciously decide to speak.
“Are we just never going to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” His voice is even and neutral, but I can hear the strain underneath.
