Page 59 of Play Fake
I try to make my irritated frown a little more playful by raising my eyebrow.
“Oh, shit.” Something like remorse crosses his face. “No. No, no, no. That’s not what I meant. Fuck no. I love your curves, darlin’. So much.”
The tone of his voice drives home the sincerity of his words.
“Then why the shitty nickname?” I ask, even more confused now.
“Because I meant what I said before. The first time I saw you in that dress. You took my breath away. It was like being hit by a truck.”
“Oh.” I stare down at the buttons on his shirt. I feel stupid now. For bringing it up. For making it awkward. For being pissed at him all this time.
“You thought—shit. No wonder you hated me so much.”
“Yeah.” I wince.
“Fuck…” He barks out a laugh, before he gives me a more sincere look. ”I’m sorry. If I’d known, I’d have told you that a long time ago.”
“It’s okay.”
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Mac. Everything about you. If you knew what I’d really thought, well, you’d probably still have been pissed at me but for different reasons.” He smirks and his eyes drift over me.
I bite my lip to tamp down the awkwardness of the silence that follows, and then I hear wolf whistles outside the truck. Someone loudly bangs their hand along the side of the bed, rattling the truck.
“Get a room, lovebirds!!!” a guy shouts at the top of his lungs.
I look up and see the defroster has done its job, and the window is more than halfway defogged. We’re parked under a streetlamp and the people passing by can see everything, but mostly a whole lot of me straddling the lap of the driver.
And that’s enough to send me scrambling off his lap and back into the passenger seat, my cheeks heating with embarrassment. I don’t look at him, staring straight ahead, but I can see out of my peripheral vision as he tries to straighten himself out again, disheveled and confused.
Me too, bud. Me too.
When it comes to Waylon, my body has a mind of its own. One my brain has trouble catching up to and the number of times it leaves me feeling confused is really starting to pile up.
He clears his throat, and starts the engine, taking it out of the idle state he’d had it in to get the heater going. I keep facing forward, hoping he’ll turn the radio or something on that will make this all less awkward, but he doesn’t. The silence is drowning out the sound of the engine of his truck, and I can’t take it anymore.
“I’m sorry I got caught—“
“You should get changed. I can—“
We both start at the same time.
“I’m sorry. Go ahead,” I say, crushing my teeth into my lower lip again.
He pauses for a beat, and I can feel his eyes on me, studying me carefully before he speaks again.
“You should get out of those clothes and into something warm before you get sick,” he says, and takes a breath before he continues. “I can take you home… or my place is closer.”
The unspoken question kicks me in my gut, and the oxygen in my lungs evaporates. My mouth growing dry as I stare down the street.
He was clear last night. The ball is in my court, and I can either go back to my safe, warm room at home or I can jump into the unknown abyss and fuck Waylon Prescott. Sure, I’ll be another one of the many, but he’ll be a story I can tell myself when I watch games on Sundays and see him playing on TV years from now.
The silence must be too long for him though because he interrupts it and kicks the truck in gear. “Home it is.”
“No,” I say abruptly, and his eyes flick to mine. “You’ve got a shower and shirt I can borrow, right?”
He nods.
“Okay. Your place then.”
