Page 44 of Play Fake
She chuckles. “Kind of. But honestly, I think that’ll take care of itself at the reunion.”
“You said that’s in October, right?”
She nods. “I just got word that the show will start airing the Monday after we film the reunion.”
“You okay?” I ask carefully. I take a sip from my whiskey, opting instead to save the champagne for her since she seemed to like it, but she didn’t bring her glass over.
“Yeah. I’m okay. Truthfully, I had fun with Jordan. It’s not like the dates with him were the worst dates I’ve ever been on.”
I raise a brow. “You haven’t talked much about him or the show. You can, you know.”
“I know.” She sighs, and she averts her gaze to the view out the window—a classic Dex move, if I’m being honest. “I thought I had fallen for him. It was a crazy few weeks. A whirlwind, really. It all started with a mix and mingle where we got to meet the whole cast. We did these speed dates where we picked six people we felt a connection with after two minutes. We had to rank them from one to six, and then producers matched us with three mutuals. We had talk time with those three, and whichever two the producers felt had the best chemistry got to move on. We had longer dates with each of them, and if we matched on our top pick with the other person, we got a fantasy date with that person. We always had mix-and-mingle time in between all of that, so we basically lived together and got to know each other on an expedited term.”
“Like us,” I mutter, and before she can respond, I ask, “So the fantasy date…that was with Jordan?”
She nods. “For me, there wasn’t really anybody but Jordan from the start. We met at the mix-and-mingle thing, and I thought he was cute.” She twists her lips. “He made me laugh, and we talked about everything. Or…producers made me think we did, anyway. They’d give us topics, and we’d explore them, but looking back, we never really got into core values and what we want out of life. It was more surface stuff.”
“What do you want out of life?” I ask.
She chuckles, but then she sees I’m serious. She shrugs. “I don’t know. I just want to be happy. To feel joy and to be a mom and to create a little life and family for myself that makes me feel excited and giddy to be alive. What about you?”
I lift a shoulder. “To play football, I guess. To have fun. To make money.” I realize how shallow that sounds as soon as the words are out of my mouth—especially compared to her answer. I shake my head. “Nah, forget that. Not the money thing. You always hear it doesn’t buy happiness, and I don’t really think that’s true. It can buy happiness. But what it can’t buy is intelligence. It can’t solve your problems. It can’t buy logic. It can’t buy personality. But it does make things a hell of a lot easier. So I guess when I really think about what I want out of life, I’m a little like you in that I just want to be happy. I like that answer. I want to feel joy every day, and I want to feel the rush that comes with taking risks and having fun.”
She nods. “So maybe we’re more alike than we realized. Except for the taking risks thing. I prefer to play it a little safer.”
“I can see that about you. But you yelledfuck iton that roller coaster. I’m bringing you over to the dark side.” I wiggle my brows, and her cheeks turn pink. I change the subject. “So what was your worst date ever?”
She makes a face. “Oh, let’s see. Was it the time my date got drunk and puked on my shoes? The one where we were in college and his mom drove us? Or maybe it was the one where we went to a haunted house and I had a panic attack.”
“Jesus. You’ve picked some real winners, Riggs.”
She purses her lips. “It’s Bradley now, thank you very much. And yes. I struck out until I struck gold.”
I point to my chest as I raise my brows. “With me?”
“With what you’re paying me,” she jokes, and I laugh. “What about you? Worst date ever?”
I lift a shoulder and take a sip of whiskey as I avert my gaze. How do I admit that the date with her to the charity ball was the first time I’ve been on areal datein years?
The others—they were a means to an end. Someone hot or famous on my arm for show at various events that ended with sex. Not a true date in the traditional sense.
“Prom, I guess,” I say.
“What happened at prom?”
“All my buddies and I were busted for drinking, and we got kicked out. My date was pissed and told my parents.” I shrug.
“You drank at prom?” she asks.
“Notatprom. Before it.”
She gives me a look.
“What? Everybody did it!”
“You were a football player who was risking potential scholarships, you idiot,” she says, and then her hand flies over her mouth. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call you an idiot.”
I laugh it off. “I know, and you’re right. I was an idiot back then. But it’s not like I grew into an adult with sense. I still chase risks, as you know.”
