Page 31 of Lessons in Faking
“Kenny.” He sounded just as pleased to see the vaguely familiar guy approaching us. They did thatman hug that’s not really a hugthing before McCarthy forced another sip of piss-beer down his throat, this time without a reaction. “You seen the birthday boy?”
Kenny shook his head, and dark blond hair flopped into his face. “Not yet—just arrived.” His eyes slid to me. “But Idosee you brought a date.” I gave a polite smile, not thinking a handshake was cool enough for the occasion. “And a nice one at that.” His attention was back on my fake boyfriend.
Dude, I’m right here—
McCarthy’s brow furrowed. “She’s right there.” He lifted our intertwined hands for emphasis. For a second, I’d wondered whether I’d said the thought out loud. “You can giveherthe compliment, not me.”
Kenny’s eyes widened, though he made a point out of not looking at either of us. His uneasiness made me smile, and he let out another nervous laugh.
McCarthy put him out of his misery a few seconds later by announcing we were going to look for the birthday boy. A pat on the back later, and we were gone, swallowed by the crowd.
“Don’t take it personally,” he said, leaning closer to make sure his voice carried over the music. “Kenny’s got areal problem with talking to women. Especially pretty ones. We’ve tried to teach him, but he just goes into full panic mode. I’m talking sweaty palms, red cheeks, stuttering.”
“Just like you, then.” I shrugged, knowing I was as wrong as the sun rising in the west. He knew it too.
“Yeah.” He dragged the word out. “Exactlylike me.”
We found the reason for this party by the fireplace in the back, surrounded by people. Big Mike, the birthday boy, wasn’t big at all. Big Mike was also Dude Guy, a.k.a. Michael, from the bar. And so when McCarthy casually propped his arm around my shoulders, pulling me closer in the middle of our conversation, Mike’s brows rose in sync with the smile on his lips.
He seemed to have a particular interest in our fake relationship, because he interrupted McCarthy in the middle of his sentence to say, “What in God’s name is this?” eyes jumping between me and him. McCarthy gave me a quick glance that said,I’ll handle this.Fine by me.
“I know you don’t have much experience with the opposite sex, but I assumed you’d know a woman when you saw one—”
“It’s my birthday, asshole. You’re supposed to be nice to me! And I wouldn’t worry aboutmyexperience whenyou’regoing to experience Pressley shitting himself when he sees you’re here together.” He paused and gave me an apologetic smile. “The other one,” he clarified unnecessarily.
That took me by surprise. No one had ever referred to Henry asthe other one. That had always been me.
“Let him.” McCarthy shrugged.
“Well, was only a matter of time, anyway. Wasn’t it?” Mike’s tone was easy. But my body basically pressed against McCarthy’s made it impossible not to notice he’d tensed up. “And besides.” Mike went on. “It’s definitely making him a better player, isn’t it? So we all win here.”
McCarthy relaxed at the mention of soccer. God, reading him was so much easier when I was close enough to feel every single one of his muscles move. “He’s never played better,” he admitted. “He runs, like, twice as fast, is twice as confident—our defense is up tenfold thanks to him. Brown won’t stand a chance next week. Won’t even get the ball past Pressley with me around.” His eyes slid to me. “Or her.”
That was my cue to leave. Soccer talk had always been my cue to leave.
“Well, you’re welcome, guys.” I laughed as I gently wiggled free of McCarthy’s grip. “I’ll be right back, just gonna find the bathroom.”
“Upstairs,” Big Mike instructed, and I thanked him with a thumbs-up, already too far to want to yell over the music.
I squeezed past the pairs and trios sitting and standing (but no longer lying) on the stairs and wound up in a much quieter, but not entirely empty corridor, then slipped into a bathroom.
I spotted McCarthy the second I returned to the hallway, and my body’s reaction surprised me more than the sight of him. When he pushed himself off the wall to walk toward me, I actually smiled.Athim.
I didn’t have time to form a single thought before he was standing in front of me, and I was swept up by the whirlwind that was Dylan McCarthy Williams.
In the blink of an eye, he moved.Us.His hands on my waist gently nudged me left, into a room I hadn’t previously known to be there. His touch only lifted to open the door before turning me in his grip and using my poor, helpless body to close it from inside. I was stuck.
Between him and an unmovable object.
I looked up at him, wide-eyed and confused.
“Sorry.” And he sounded sincere. His hand stayed curled around my waist, and I didn’t make any indication of wanting him to remove it. My skin burned under his touch, despite the layer of fabric between us. “Pressley.” His words did absolutely nothing to explain. Not even when he nodded at the closed door I was still pressed against.
“Yes?”
“No.” McCarthy shook his head quickly. “The other one.”
There it was again.
