Page 39 of The Faking Game
I put on a pair of black pants and an asymmetric top that opens over one shoulder and down over my arm. I let my hair fall straight around my shoulders and add a bit of red tint on my lips.
I focus on that so I can’t focus on my nerves.
They’re not quite as hot and uncomfortable as when I’m going on a real date, when I know there’s a man sitting opposite me expecting something. Wanting me to laugh at his jokes, smile, hint, be interesting and interested. When I want to feel something for him but never, ever do.
How will all this work with West?
A few minutes before eight, I walk through the grand entrance and push open the front door, and there he is. Leaning against a car parked on the gravel courtyard, hands in his pockets, watching me. Like he’s been standing here just watching the door and waiting for me to arrive.
I pause on the steps.
West’s eyes dip down in a slow look over my body, all the way down to my feet and all the way back up to my face. He’s never looked at me like that before.
Like he’s savoring the sight.
“Hi,” I manage.
“You look beautiful tonight, Nora.”
I look at my feet as I take the stairs. It’s a welcome break from his eyes.
“You’re playing a part tonight?” I ask. One foot in front of the other.
“I remember your list,” he says. “You don’t like compliments.”
I look up at him, but there’s no judgment on his face. He opens the passenger door for me. “Ladies first.”
He gets into the driver’s seat, and it’shimI’m doing this with. Sitting here beside. Is this how he usually picks a woman up? Will I get to see West Calloway the way his dates do?
The nerves in my stomach tighten.
His right hand curves over the wheel, and I catch sight of the ring. The signet ring. Same one my brother wears and a good reminder of just who he is. He’s still the guy who turned me down years ago. Who told Alex that he would never date me.
My nerves settle a little, and it’s easier to breathe. I’ve been on first dates before. I’m good at first dates. It’s one of my skills.I shine,if I may say so myself. They always ask for a second date.
But my therapist Zeina tells me that’s not the point.You’re not yourself. You’re performing for them and you come home exhausted. You don’t leave any space for your own emotions.
She’s good at saying hard things and making them sound easy.
West pulls down the long driveway to the wrought-iron gates and reaches to turn on the radio. Dulcet tones spread in the car.
“Where are we going tonight?” I ask.
“You’ll find out,” he says, voice low. “But I think you’ll like it.”
Damn. I don’t like not knowing. “Oh. That’s fun.”
West glances at me once and then back at the road. “You don’t mean that. Push me on it. Make me tell you where we’re going.”
I cross my legs at the ankles. Right. “Can you tell me, please?”
“Better,” he says. “But too polite.”
“I am polite. Usually.”
His lips quirk. Like he knows the part I’m not adding.When I’m not with you.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, voice deepening again. “But you’ll like it. I promise you.”
