Page 58 of Lessons in Faking
So once the floodgates opened, I told the poor boy everything. More than he probably wanted to know.
“So your parents both went to HBU?” he asked during a short pause in my rambling. I nodded, my eyes set on the passing scenery as we steadily approached civilization and left the long, winding highway behind.
“It’s where they met,” I elaborated. “My dad wrote his thesis at HBU during his semester abroad. They basically begged him to. For the soccer thing. They knew he’d go pro the second he graduated—his parents were adamant that he needed a degree, and HBU wanted his name attached to them. Back then, their soccer team wasn’t anything special.”
“Because they didn’t have me,” McCarthy joked, and a reluctant smile accompanied my eye roll.
“Surely,” I drawled, exaggerating the word before shifting my gaze outside once more. “I guess they didn’t have you, but once Dad agreed to a full-ride semester, they had Felix Pressley. He became captain, led them to victory in his senior year, and the rest is history, I guess.” The rest being: Felix Pressley becoming a soccer legend by the timehe was twenty-three, playing for the British national team until Henry and I were five, then “retiring” to play in the States, where he’d been valued at $70million.
“And your mom?” Mentioning my mother so casually, I forgot I was grieving her for a second. That was new. Unfamiliar. Kind of... nice. Of him. I almost thanked him again, just for treating the subject like any other.
“Naomi Yung had a flourishing business by the time she entered her junior year of college,” I said, mimicking the thousands of headlines and articles in a booming voice. “First one to focus on deep data instead of just big data, offering applied statistics to—” I cut myself off. McCarthy hadn’t asked for a deep dive into my mother’s life’s work. “She graduated with honors. Her bachelor’s and her master’s. By the time she’d left university, DeepStat had acquired their largest competitor, and she was a multimillionaire. Self-made.”
“Hold on,” McCarthy said. “You’re telling me your mom was a... statistician?”
“Originally,” I said. I knew what he was getting at, so I pointed it out before he could. “Yet here I am,” I scoffed, realizing what had been sitting on my chest for so long. “Failing Statistics, of all things. Hating soccer.”And disappointing the only two people I didn’t want to disappoint.“They’d be disappointed if they were here to see, wouldn’t they?” I realized how heavily the question hung in the air.
The sound of squeaking brakes interrupted what should’ve been an awkward silence. My head snapped inhis direction. The seat belt dug into my chest, holding me in place. My eyes, wide, found his.
Did we hit an animal? Aperson? I searched for the reason for his abrupt stop, panic taking over my body, pulse thumping through my skin.
But there was nothing. Just a dark intersection, entirely empty. The traffic light illuminated the inside of his car in a cool green, turning to harsh red as we sat in silence. Another realization hit: This was the first time I’d let it all out. And it was McCarthy I was letting it outto.
If there was one person I shouldn’t let anything out to, it was him. Wasn’t it?
If that were true, I wondered why his jaw shifted and his brow creased as he scanned me in the red light.I’m sorry, I meant to say.I didn’t mean to unload that on you.But the words stuck in my throat, and it only got worse when his lips were suddenly on mine, body leaning across the console meant to be separating us.
There was nothing primal or hungry in the way his lips moved against mine. No eagerness to go further, no impatience. Just color rising to my cheeks and stomach flutters as I realized that this wasit.
That I’d never been kissed so tenderly. So sweetly. So reassuringly. A kiss had never said so much—more than all the words, in every combination, could ever do.
And when he pulled away, his forehead against mine and his breath a little heavier against the tip of my nose, I wondered if I’d ever recover from this. From him. From thelittle devil on my shoulder telling me that Dylan McCarthy Williams wasit.
He opened his eyes, hand still lingering on my cheek as his thumb rubbed featherlight circles. “If I ever hear you say something like that again...” he began, his voice so quiet, I had to concentrate on every word. “You’re a once-in-a-lifetime kind of woman, Athalia. You get done what you want to get done,whenyou want to get it done. You don’t have to live on your parents’ schedule, and you don’t live in anyone’s shadow. You’re your own person. You know that, don’t you?”
All I knew was that I didn’t know what to say. That he’d rendered me speechless and fucking teary-eyed. “I’m sorry,” I finally got out, sounding less strangled than I felt. “I didn’t mean to unload all this on you. I should deal with my own shit before—”
“Shut up.” He created another inch of space between us, his other hand coming up to hold my face. “I’ll deal with your shit as much as you’ll let me. I want to. Just like I want to hear everything you have to say, everything you want to tell me. Don’t ever apologize for that.”
Oh God.
I leaned in to kiss him this time. A little sloppier, more distracted by the taste of his lips and the way he explored me, rather than the funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. His hands moved into my hair. I couldn’t help the satisfied sigh that slipped past my lips in the tenth of a second they weren’t on his.
The sound drew a low groan out of him that only mademe want him more. Closer.So much closer.The thought drove me further across the console, heat pooling between my legs as I pushed him back into the driver’s seat. I struggled to unbuckle my seat belt when everything within me just wanted to focus on him.
Teasing my lower lip, biting it gently before my low moan encouraged him to do it harder. Breathing against my parted lips in a way that sent a shiver of need down my spine. Occupying every corner of my conscious mind.
His honey-brown eyes, the dark mess atop his head that was parted in the middle today, and the way his pink lips would curl into a smirk before eventually breaking into a grin that very rarely revealed his dimple.
A loud honk stopped me in my pursuit of his lap.
My eyes opened as we shot apart. The interior of his car was no longer glowing red, instead illuminated by the deep green of the traffic light and the insistent headlights of the car behind us.
McCarthy cleared his throat, then struggled to clear his mind enough to shift into first gear. He quickly found his footing again, holding up an apologetic hand to the driver behind us as he got the Jeep rolling with a small squeak of wheels against asphalt.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered, glancing my way. The teasing tone as we rolled through the residential streets told me he was rather pleased about it. He seemed familiar with his surroundings now, more comfortable taking his eyes off the road for a second longer to look at me.
In a lapse of all judgment, I confessed, “I really want you.” I sounded almost desperate, my voice breaking as I spoke. And I was shocked to discover I wasn’t embarrassed by it at all.
