Page 27 of Lessons in Faking
“Pressley,” he hissed, voice low and deep. “I’m really trying here.” But I didn’t want to focus on that, or him, or how tense he was all of a sudden. How he held me closer to keep me in place.
My eyes and ears were already on my brother again. The latter sighed, seemingly letting out all built-up frustration, then took a long sip from his glass. As if to emphasize his point—as if he knew I was listening and as if he knew how desperately I wanted to hear his answer—he didn’t look away when he said, “Couldn’t care less, Michael.” Then he smiled. Right to my face.
Which made an awful thought pop into my head.
Was the reason Henry supposedly didn’t care that he knew? Knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t intentionally spend more time with McCarthy than seriously needed? Knew me well enough to anticipate the surefire revenge coming his way? Knew me well enough to figure out thatthiswas it?
With how much distance he’d put between us, I didn’t think he’d know me at all, but...
My head spun. I panicked. I stood. Short-circuited. Afew heads turned my way curiously, quickly turning away again when they realized nothing was going on. Only Wren and McCarthy were both looking at me with equal interest in figuring out what I was planning.
Funny they should ask. I didn’t know either.
“Getting food,” I lied quickly. I nodded to the bar and hoped to God they served nachos or fries in this place.
And thank God they did. I took my sweet time reading each and every food item on the menu. Cheesy nachos. Onion rings. Peanuts.
I was in no rush to be sitting opposite my brother. Or on top of McCarthy, for that matter. What was the point if Henry was already fully aware of everything? Any previous confidence in my plan had vanished.
Who would’ve guessed it was about to be me begging Wren to leave well before she had the chance to ask me? Apparently, her conversation with Laila was delightful. One glance told me as much.
With my eyes back on the menu, I sighed. Mozzarella sticks. Wings. French fries.
“Athalia.”
My head shot back up at the sound of my name. The dim light revealed a vaguely familiar smile.
“Blake?” If I sounded surprised, it’s because I was.
Blake Zachary, all charm and big smiles. Remembering McCarthy’s list, Blake was his best friend. Tall, dark, and handsome—he was the very definition. We’d been on the same beer pong team once, but that was as far as our acquaintance went.
“You enjoying yourself?” His dark eyes trailed back to me while he gave the bartender his order. Compared to McCarthy’s honey-brown, his were an almost abyss-like black, deeper and darker, and I definitely needed to stop thinking about eyes that weren’t in front of me right now.
“Uh-huh,” I muttered. Nodded. “You?”
“Celebrating a win’s always nice,” he agreed. “Better than a loss, anyway.” He gave a grateful nod to the bartender when he returned with drinks.
“I feel we should get to know each other better,” he continued, his voice smooth and silky. “Now that you’redatingmy best friend and all. I hardly know anything about you. Nothing apart from the fact that you’re awful at beer pong and supposed to hate Dylan as much as your brother does.” There was something challenging in his eyes, yet his calm demeanor didn’t crack.
“Are you trying to do a background check on me, Zachary?” I teased, and it brought a slight smile to his face.
“Not at all.” Blake raised the glass to his lips, taking a sip before he shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Trying this new approach called ‘intimidating best friend.’ Wren’s got it perfected.” His eyes flashed behind me. “How did I do?”
“Awful. Really quite awful.” I laughed and was relieved when he offered me a single one as well.
“Good.” His eyes wandered down my sweater, half-heartedly tucked into the pleated skirt, its gray almost as dark as the tights underneath. When his eyes came back up to meet mine, it was too dark to read his expression. “Let’s try that again, then.”
And he was actually quite pleasant to talk to once he dropped the act of concerned, intimidating best friend. We chatted for a solid ten minutes before he turned to order another nonalcoholic drink for Mike. Whoever that was.
As if I’d just remembered, my attention darted to the laminated menu still sitting underneath my fingertips.
“That must be one hell of a snack.” I startled at the familiar voice coming from behind me. My head whipped up in recognition, and I eyed the bottles of liquor behind the bar. “Whatever you ordered better be worth the twenty minutes it took you to get it.”
McCarthy knew nothing had been ordered. He just wanted to see me squirm, and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Not after he’d left me speechless once already tonight.
“I’ll probably go with the nachos. What do you think?” I pretended to read that damned menu yet again. In the corner of my eye, I could see Blake’s attention shift from the much busier bartender to his best friend.
McCarthy’s arms wrapped around my waist from behind, head resting on my shoulder and his body flush with mine. To keep up our facade—obviously. Despite having sat on his lap for the past hour, this felt different enough for my breath to hitch. Hopefully so lightly it went unnoticed.
