Page 19 of Lessons in Faking
It’s how we’d ended up full-blown quizzing each other on the contents of our respective documents.
“Best friend?” I asked.
“Wren Inkwood, history major. Dislikes me strongly. Mine?”
I tried to hide the disappointment at his correct answer, instead focused on the response he expected from me. “Blake Zachary, computer science.”
So far, we’d gone through full name (McCarthy Williams, Dylan), age (twenty-three), favorite color (green), and parents’ names (Natalie McCarthy and Lincoln Williams). We were moving quicker now, the next question already on his lips before his last had even been answered. He was enjoying this, hoping to make me slip up—just as much as I wanted him to.
“Hometown?” he asked, and the answer flew out of my mouth effortlessly.
“DC. Mine?” Determined to see him fail, I leaned closer, elbows on the table despite my many etiquette classes.
Unfortunately, his answer was just as confident and correct. “London, Chelsea. Moved to New York when you were five, grew up there.”
I groaned at the victorious smile on his lips, watching the dimple in his cheek deepening with the sound.
“Seems much easier for you to study me than correlations and regressions,” he pointed out. By now, the lack of distance between us was apparent. The more challenging the question, the closer we’d drawn to one another. So far, noone had been intimidated, and no one had gotten an answer wrong. We were just competitively staring at each other in the middle of a café, not enough space between us for comfort.
“Well.” I cleared my throat, leaning back into my chair to break the tension. “There are few things duller than correlations and regressions.”
“Aw,” he said with a cruel smile. “Did you just admit I’m interesting, Pressley?”
My eyes rolled with an equal mix of amusement and disbelief. “Being more interesting than statistics isnota compliment.”
He shrugged. “I’d say that’s subjective. Don’t you think?” He waited for my response somewhat eagerly, as if my words were next week’s lottery numbers.
“Have I mentioned that you’re insufferable?”
“And yet you begged to fake-date me.”
My head shot back in his direction, and he looked at me like it was the exact reaction he’d aimed for.Fuck.
“I did not beg,” I clarified. “And at this point, I regret even politely asking.”
“No you don’t.”
And I would have 100percent disagreed with him—if Henry hadn’t just walked through the door. Instead, my body stiffened, and my brother noticed me immediately.
Henry’s gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second before shifting unnaturally quickly to explore the familiar shop.
He looked at the handwritten chalkboard menu as if he wasn’t going to order what he got every single morning.His attention shifted to the various bouquets of flowers on the other side of the room, even though he’d bought at least half of them for Paula at some point. And then, as if he couldn’t help himself, his gaze flicked toward me again.
If an expression could be made of steel, his was stainless. Not a twitch in the mask he was wearing for ego-preserving purposes. It was infuriating.
God, I really needed this McCarthy thing to work out.
“He’s behind me?”
I startled. At McCarthy’s voice, the reminder that he was actually here and we were really doing this. Fortunately, it was the nudge I needed to get it together and put my—no doubt risky—plan in motion.
Nodding, I smiled as if he’d just promised me the world. A quick glance behind him told me Henry had a hard time not showing interest in the guy hislittle sisterwas sitting across from. But his relatively calm expression told me he hadn’t yet recognized the back of his enemy’s head. “How good is your fake laugh?”
McCarthy didn’t reply. Instead, his lips parted in a grin, his nose crinkled, and he squinted slightly as a perfectly natural laugh filled the store.
I didn’t think anything could’ve prepared me for the sight. Or the sound. Or the way I could grow accustomed to hearing it more often. The slight rasp, the hint of a giggle bubbling in the back of his throat when he threw his head back.
Damn it.
