Page 55 of Lessons in Faking
Just thinking about it still made my hatred for the press grow.Hey, let’s use the picture of a couple that died in a jet crash where they’re standing right in front of one a few years before the accident.Vile. But it brought clicks and attention and money. That’s what the world revolved around, right?
A sharp knock startled me out of my thoughts, and I emerged from under my blanket. I had no intention of answering whoever was currently abusing the apartment door, but I was curious. Whoever it wasreallywanted to get in here. The knocks became more forceful the longer they went unanswered.
For a moment, I wondered about the likelihood of a reporter or paparazzi attempting to get an exclusive of the billionaires’ daughter grieving. I almost laughed at the thought of the public seeing me like this: red, puffy eyes; untamed hair; wearing nothing but an oversized hoodie and underwear from the day before. (Hey, no judgment—I’m grieving.)
But what I heard then was so unexpected, I froze. His voice was so familiar by now, I recognized it even when it was muffled by the walls and doors still separating us.
I scrambled out of my sheets faster than I would on a normal day. The fact I was out of bed at all, instead of hiding under my covers and crying, was huge. Just in case, I patted my cheeks lightly, drying whatever wetness might’ve stained them otherwise, and opened the door.
Yep, it was McCarthy all right. Wearing casual black suit pants, an oversized olive sweatshirt, and a black coat.
Something in his expression shifted as his gaze traveled across my features—probably noticing the redness around my nose, how puffy my eyes were.
“Are you still sick?” he asked, his voice... quiet, somehow hopeful. When I shook my head slowly, he didn’t hesitate.
The six-foot-something giant—the very one who wasn’t supposed to be here at all—threw his arms around my body as if he’d been born to do it. His scent engulfed me and his embrace felt tight, warm, protective. Most of all it was... needed. The realization made me tremble.
“Thank you,” I muttered into his chest. I wasn’t sure if he’d heard me, but I assumed the way his hand came up to play with my hair was a response.
McCarthy took a deep breath, placing his head on top of mine. “I’m so stupid,” he breathed out. “I should’ve been here yesterday. And the day before that. And the day beforethat. I should’ve—” His hands cupped my face lightly. I hated that my eyes glistened when I looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”
I shook my head, the gesture half-hearted. He should be the last person to feel sorry for anything. We didn’t evenlike each other, for God’s sake. Still, here he was. Bothering to check up on me before he...
I cleared my throat. “So you’re heading home now?” I couldn’t figure out the small smile that crept onto his lips, and my eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Come on.” His hand slipped into mine so casually, I didn’t really notice. He dragged me into my room, and if he was judging the state of it, I couldn’t tell. “When was the last time you looked at your phone, Pressley?” That teasing undertone in his voice was back, and I never thought I’d be so glad to hear it. It brought a sense of normalcy, served as a reminder that there were days before and after the grief. It was a distraction from the fact they had died in the first place. And it’s exactly what I needed.
“I turned it off when—” The brief high of distraction slipped out from under me. “Just turned it off,” I corrected with a shrug, nodding toward the dark screen on my bedside table.
Although I’m sure he could tell there was something off about the statement, he let it be. “That explains why you’re neither packed nor dressed. And why you’re wearing your glasses.” He seemed to think about his statement. “So get changed and pack.” He was silent for a beat, considering. “But leave the glasses on.”
Leaving them on was a given with the number of tears spilled this time of year anyway.
“What?” he asked when I showed no sign of understanding what the hell was going on. “You thought you’dget to fake-date me without the awkward meet-the-family Thanksgiving dinner? Where’s the fun in that?”
Oh.
Oh no.
“I don’t—” I cut myself off. “We shouldn’t—”
“I’ve gotten clear instructions, Pressley,” he said firmly, heading for my closet and finding a duffel bag on the top shelf. “And even if I hadn’t, I’m not leaving you. You owe me, remember?”
Clear instructions?
He turned around, holding the bag out to me. “I’m calling in your debt. You’re coming with me.”
I was officially lost. Maybe that’s why I took the bag from him.
Thirty minutes later—during which I’d packed (thrown a random array of clothes into my bag), showered, and gotten dressed—we were sitting in McCarthy’s black Jeep, four hundred miles between us and Washington, DC. A good mix of road-trip-appropriate songs played through the car’s speakers, and I was just glad to be somewhere that wasn’t my deserted apartment.
I’d noticed the Polaroid picture on his dashboard the second I’d gotten in. My wide smile and his wet hair.
“Hey, uh—thank you,” I breathed out. Again.Why is this man giving me so many damn reasons to be genuinely grateful?“For all this.” As I gestured around the car half-heartedly, my eyes didn’t waver from his frame in the driver’s seat.
He shrugged, unable to hide the smile that wasbeginning to tease the corners of his mouth. “Now, if someone would’ve told me a month ago that you’d be in my car on the way to meet my family, I would’ve figured it could only be part of some elaborate plan to dump you in the middle of nowhere and see how you’d cope.”
My laugh overshadowed the low music coming from the speakers. “Well, I would’ve figured the only way I’d be in here is unconscious. Now look at me, fully awake and in control of all my actions.” Almost all of them.If I could just get my lips back into a straight line.
