Page 34 of Lessons in Faking
Yep, definitely not three-in-one shampoo.
It was probably ten seconds before I came up for air—not enough time to warrant how I felt. Flustered, turned on. A little needy. The low, muffled sound of disapproval McCarthy let out almost made me go in for round two. He cleared his throat, probably hoping it would cover the noise, but I was hyperaware of every single sound and motion coming from him. The unevenness of his breathing. The look in his eyes that made an unwelcome rush ofmoresurge through my body.
Nope. Nopenopenopenope.
“That wasn’t a good idea.” His voice was barely a whisper. Because we’d just crossed a boundary that was hard to put back in place, I assumed.
I felt glued in place. Maybe a part of me didn’t want to move away from him at all, which was absurd.This is McCarthy, I reminded myself.You don’t like him—shouldn’t want him anywhere near you.And yet.
I finally looked down the corridor. Henry was gone, but I hardly cared. I’d known and done it anyway.
Not a good idea.
For many reasons, it was probably the worst idea I’d ever had:
1. He’s Dylan McCarthy Williams.
2. I justkissedhim.
3. And it kind of felt too good to just... forget.
So why wasn’t I regretting it? I swallowed when I looked at him again, correct in suspecting that his eyes had never left my face.
Chapter 17
We walked home in silence.
Henry probably took off while McCarthy still had his tongue down my throat, and I was too sober to pretend whatever had happened didn’t... happen. So I’d left McCarthy standing in the hallway, ready to march home by myself.
It hadn’t even been a full minute before he caught up with me on the sidewalk. He probably shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye to his friends, but I wasn’t mad about the company.
Yes, that surprised me too.
McCarthy broke the comfortable silence between us five minutes and six blocks later.
“Was it that bad?” His shoulder bumped mine jokingly, and the gentle motion almost threw me off my heels. If it weren’t for his hand immediately reaching for my waist to steady me, I would’ve probably face-planted on the sidewalk.
There was a sly expression on the pink lips that had been so soft and welcoming—
“Awful,” I confirmed before my cheeks could heat up enough to reveal I was lying. “Absolutely terrible.”
We continued down the road.
“Agreed.” He nodded thoughtfully. I only glanced his way because I knew I’d spot the smile he was trying to hide, and I kind of wanted to see it. “Very poor effort from your side.”
“From my side?” I rested my hands on my hips, coming to a halt to scowl at him. Half because I wanted to sell my fake outrage, half because my feet were killing me and I didn’t think I could walk a single step farther in those boots.
“Yep.” He popped that “p” so self-assuredly, my eyes practically rolled out of my head.
“Right.” In response, I rolled my “r” as condescendingly as I could. He laughed, then kept moving. And though I was in so much pain the second my feet moved off solid ground, I followed him like a lost puppy.
“Iamright.”
“Sure,” I snickered. Giving up the shoe battle, I looped my arm through his—putting all my weight on him—before letting out a loud, satisfied sigh.
He didn’t bat an eye at it. Or me. Just laughed softly and asked, “You good?”
My first response was another groan. “My shoes,” I complained, “are killing me.” To emphasize, I dragged him to a stop and wiggled my heeled boot in front of him.
