Page 68 of The Faking Game
“Break a heel and I might,” he says.
“I’ll be careful, then.”
He guides us past the poker table. There are people I recognize in here. Famous faces, a few familiar ones. People I’ve seen my brother talk to on occasion.
“Do you play?” It’s a stupid question. I know he does; my brother loses a lot of money on the trips he goes on with the guys. When they spend half a week in a far-flung location doing dares, and making mistakes, and ending it all with a poker game.
“You know I do,” West says in a low voice. He’s turned us so I have my back to the game, and he’s looking across my shoulder at the guests. “There’s someone from my family here tonight, I think. He never misses a game.”
“Who?”
“My cousin.”
“Is he part of the matchmaking scheme?”
“In a way,” West says.
“So you want us to put on a show,” I murmur, and reach out to run my hands along his chest. Flatten them like I’ve done in our self-defense sessions.
“Do not,” he says, “practice rejecting me right now.”
“But you want me to get good at it.”
“I do. And we’ll practice more. In private.”
My fingers close around his lapels. He wants people here to think we’re a couple.Whispers always spread from this party…
“Don’t reject me either,” I whisper, and I rise up to brush my lips against his cheek.
West stands stock-still. I’ve never had a guy react like that before. It’s always been a rush to capitalize on the moment, mouth on mine, tongue too fast.
I sink back down onto my heels and smile in delight.
“Playing for the audience?” His whiskey eyes are unreadable.
“I’m putting on a show. That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”
He chuckles. It’s a dark sound, and it’s just as scratchy as his beard. “Trouble, if you think that qualifies as putting on a show, we’re going to have to work on our definitions.”
My eyes briefly dip to his lips, and then quickly away again. “You don’t strike me as the kind of man who loves PDA.”
“You seem to spend a lot of time thinking about my dating life,” he mutters, sliding his hand back around my waist. Where he told me he would keep it. “Come. There’s only one place we have left to look.”
I reach into the pocket of his suit jacket and pull out the brass key. “Let me guess. It goes to hell?”
“You’ve caught on to the theme,” he says. “I shouldn’t take you there, but I will, and I’ll pay the price for it.”
Excitement makes my blood drum. “I can handle it.”
“I know you can.” He reaches down to take my hand. Threads his fingers through mine the way we practiced the other day, warmth against warmth. “This way.”
“You’ve been in this house before.”
“Many times.”
“You knew the person who used to live here.”
“Yes. But we’re going to get in and get out before he might show. That’s not the person I’m looking for.” He pulls me down a corridor and through an old wooden library. The whole place is gothic, so different in design from Fairhaven.
