Page 35 of The Faking Game
Nora looks up at me. “I’m still annoyed at you about that, by the way.”
“No,” I say. “You’re not.”
Her eyes narrow. “And why do you think I’m not?”
“Because I saw the relief on your face before you hid it,” I say. “Didn’t make sense at the time, but now it does. You didn’t want to be on that date to begin with, and you were glad I ended it.”
She turns her face forward, her narrow chin pointing up. Her full lips are pressed tight together.
I smile, because I’m right, and she hates that I’ve read her correctly.
“If you want me to say thank you…”
“I don’t need thanks,” I tell her. What I need is her honesty.
It’s exhilarating.
She steps through the white picket gate that opens up to the grassy VIP area. Over on the green, the players have already lined up, four horses in each team, ready for the first chukka to start. Polo season has begun.
Nora sits on a chair in the front row. Her green floral-patterned dress hugs her shape perfectly as she looks out at the riders. They’re all in colorful jerseys—green and white for one team, and red and yellow for the other.
“My question,” I remind her. “You still haven’t answered it. Why did you swipe right on him?”
“Because he seemed normal,” she says. “And not intimidatingly attractive. And besides, I need the practice.”
My eyes narrow. “That’swhy?”
“What more could there have been?” She shrugs and glances at me briefly before looking back out at the game. We’re close enough to hear the snort of one of the horses and the shake of its head.
“I don’t know,” I say acidly. “That you liked him? Found him attractive? Wanted to talk more to him? Found himinteresting?”
She looks back at me. “Is that why you date so rarely? Because you never find women interesting?”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions about me, trouble, but you don’t know me. Not really.”
“No. Clearly not.” She takes another drag of her champagne, and her sheet of brown hair hides her face from view. It looks glossy beneath the bright spring sun.
It’s the first game of the season, and the stands are full.
She said yes to him because she needed to practice, and that was it. Nothing else.
“Did you have fun? Before I showed up?” I already suspect the answer.
“No,” she admits. “He wasn’t… it wasn’t fun.”
“You could have left,” I say.
That makes her chuckle. “How? That would have been rude.”
Rude.
She has men fawning over her. She must have. She’s stunning, and kind, and smart. And if she struggles to leave or set boundaries? Well, that’s a problem. And it’s not one I want her to have. She may be sparkly and beautiful and smiling with the world, but she has fangs. I’ve seen her use them with me.
It’s my favorite version of her.
The whistle goes off, and the game starts. The beating of hooves fills the air, rises up to a melody. They gallop past us in pursuit of the ball.
“My turn, Calloway,” she says. “Why don’t you date?”
