Page 44 of Lessons in Faking
I would’ve screamed if I could’ve managed it.
There, on the brown leather couch in the middle of the room, sat my tutor. My fake boyfriend. My brother’s nemesis. Even without my contacts or glasses, I recognized him, looking as unbothered as ever.
Is this what fever dreams feel like?
If he noticed how awful I looked, he didn’t let on. “Ah,” he sighed, closing the book he must have pulled out ofWren’sshelf with a thud. “She’s awake.” His eyes raked over my silk pajama shorts and the matching top. “Long night?” Sarcasm laced his tone. I thought I might’ve imagined a flicker of concern cross his features.
“What are you...?” I trailed off, perplexed and overwhelmed and—
“It’s Wednesday,” he pointed out. He looked at the watch around his wrist, though I had a feeling he knew exactly what time it was. “Three o’clock. An hour past our... date. You’re really messing my schedule up here.” And even then, it took me a few seconds to realize he meant our tutoring session.
God, I’m really out of it.
“Do I look like I could handle an hour of your blabbering right now?”
I told myself it was fine. I was sick, and this was what sick people looked like. But in the back of my head, I couldn’t help how vulnerable it made me feel. Growing up in the public eye, what I wore mattered, and only became more important after my parents died. People dissected my clothing, trying to read my mood or get a sense of my well-being. The message I’d wanted to convey wasI’m fine.
McCarthy snickered as he stood.
The back of his hand connected with my forehead seconds later, and I almost backed away. I didn’t want him anywhere near me when I was this sweaty and gross, but I didn’t object. I just stood there.
“You’re burning up, Pressley,” he muttered, eyes narrowing with... more concern? Probably not. His hand fell from my forehead to cup my cheek. Gently, quickly. “Seriously burning up,” he said as he lowered it.
“What can I say? I’m just that hot, I guess.”
“Literally.”
“And metaphorically,” I added.
“And metaphorically,” he repeated. He cleared histhroat. “Well, you know what they say? Hot girls let their fake boyfriends nurse them back to health.”
Before I could even begin to object, I was in his arms bridal-style, and before I could object tothat, he’d already lowered me onto the couch. McCarthy disappeared into my room without so much as a questioning glance for permission.
When he came back out, he held all three of my throw blankets: the one from my bed, the one hanging over the back of my chair, and the spare one that I wouldn’t have found, even if I tried.
“What are you doing here?” I asked again, distracting myself from the fact McCarthy was tucking me in.
A hint of a smile formed on his lips. “You know.” I didn’t know. “Checking whether my only student is skipping my carefully crafted lessons without a good excuse.”
I laughed half-heartedly. “So you just thought you’d break into her apartment?”
“Well.” He tried to suppress his grin. “She’s also my girlfriend, and I’m a very clingy man.” His expression turned serious, the hint of a smile disappearing. “You should really lock your doors when you’re home, Pressley. Anyone could’ve walked in here.”
Apparently done with his safety lecture, he asked where I kept the painkillers. I shrugged, deliberately keeping my eyes on the high ceiling. I knew he’d be right there if I were to turn. If I could smell anything, I’d probably be able to detect that minty scent from his gum. Meanwhile, I hadn’t even brushed my teeth today. Gross.
McCarthy came back from the bathroom with Tylenol and a glass of water in one hand and a damp washcloth in the other. He almost looked like a knight in shining armor walking over to me.
He sat cross-legged on the green-and-white-checkered carpet beside the couch, placing all his findings on the coffee table. “Drink some before you take anything,” he ordered gently, handing me the water.
Uncharacteristically, I listened. And immediately regretted it.
“Did you just do what I told you? Without arguing?” McCarthy gasped. “Unbelievable. Maybe you should be sick more often.”
“I hope this is contagious,” I grumbled back, a scowl on my face. McCarthy just plopped the pill into my empty hand.
“I’m immune. My sister gets sick all the time. So whatever germs you’re spreading—been there, done that. My immune system will persevere.” Then he disappeared into the kitchen.
“Sister?” I wondered, because that never made it onto the little fact sheet we’d exchanged at the beginning of this. “I didn’t know you had one.”
