Page 51 of Lessons in Faking
A laugh slipped past my lips. “Oh, am I?”
“I think you are.”
“Ithink I’m doing just enough—could probably bump it up a notch.”
“You,” he began, face inching closer to mine ever so slightly, “are a pain in the ass if I’ve ever met one, Athalia Pressley.”
“Funny,” I said, not backing down even as he moved to close the gap between us. “I was just thinking the same about you.”
He grinned so widely, I wanted to squeeze his cheeks grandma-style and admire that dimple for the rest of my life. The way he squinted, the joy in his features, and the way his nose crinkled was... new.
I swallowed hard, the air suddenly thick. The pasta bubbled happily in the pot beside us, the sauce making the place smell like an Italian restaurant. One of those really good ones on the Lower East Side. But it wasn’t the steam making my hands feel clammy, and it wasn’t the warmth of the stove either.
It was him.
The way his eyes fell to my lips unapologetically, like he wanted to remember the way they’d felt on his. Like he wasn’t desperately trying to forget how well they—we—fit. It’s what I was currently busy with.
But forgetting the way he’d felt below me, forgetting those little sounds he’d make if I were to just bury my hands in his hair now, trail kiss after kiss up his neck, until I found that spot just below his ear, seemed impossible.Instead, I remembered that the last time I’d kissed him there, he’d moaned my name before almost taking me on my living room floor.
The possibilities were swimming between us. If I just moved—
A loud hiss interrupted what would’ve turned inappropriate in a matter of seconds.
The pasta water was boiling over the pot, hissing as it dripped onto the hot stove. McCarthy jumped into action, lowered the heat, and took the pot off. He glanced in my direction, and... noticed my unwarranted amusement.
“Fuck,” I muttered between laughs.
And something about it must’ve been funny enough for him too. A second later, we were bent over in synchronized laughter, McCarthy struggling to hold the pot upright in his hands. The focused look on his face as he balanced only made me laugh harder. Which, in turn, made him laugh harder.
It was a vicious cycle. One I participated in gladly.
Despite McCarthy almost dropping it, dinner tasted as good as it smelled. And while I was washing my hands in the bathroom, something struck me.
This was a date. Wasn’t it?
We’d had plenty of them. One a week for the past month, at least. Sometimes more if there were special events my brother was attending. Though none of them were real, and I wasn’t sure if this one was either.
When you pretended to date someone for as long as we had—when you saw them every day, spent time with themevery other, held hands, looked at them lovingly, laughed at their bad jokes—lines began to blur. In this case, even with my contacts in, I couldn’t see that line anymore. I couldn’t figure out when it had disappeared either.
Was it before or after he’d rewarded me for the right answers with a kiss?
Perhaps the line had gone shaky the second he’d started to appear in my apartment. Where no one was around to witness our acting. Where, even without an audience, he still showed up. I still let him in.
Still deep in thought, I headed back to the kitchen. I was just about to turn the corner when Wren’s voice, followed by McCarthy’s, brought me to an abrupt stop. What I was perceiving as an animated conversation must’ve been a passionate argument, right?
I expected the worst when I stepped into their field of vision, though neither of them even noticed my entrance.Good.Gave me more time to observe.
Facing each other from opposite corners of the kitchen island, Wren held a bowl of pasta he must’ve offered her. More importantly, her usual McCarthy-scowl was missing. She seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say.
We talked. No coercion needed. No harm done.
Maybe he hadn’t lied after all.
“I haven’t seen it live yet,” McCarthy admitted. Wren immediately interrupted with that giddy tone she only used when discussing one thing. The Lin-Manuel Miranda mug on the counter confirmed my suspicion and had probably kicked off the conversation about herfavorite musical. I groaned. Internally. After all, I still wanted to eavesdrop.
“Honestly”—she cut herself off with a spoonful of pasta—“it’s on a whole other level live! You’re really missing out.”
“I know.” His head fell back in frustration, and the movement was what made him notice me from the corner of his eye. “Athalia. Hey.”
