“And domestic is a good thing?” she asks, leading him down the hallway back toward the living room.
He shrugs, even though she can’t see it. “Domestic is a neutral thing. You just always look good.”
“Xavier, we said . . .” She trails off, warning in her voice.
“I know what we said,” he says, scoffing, “but shit, that’s not something I can lie about, boss.”
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
“Right, of course,” he covers, because hasn’t he been lying this whole time? A lie of omission, at least.
“Have you been lying to me, Xavier Byrne?”
“What would I even have to lie about?” He doesn’t quite answer the question.
“Fair enough,” she concedes, collapsing down to the couch cushions and curling into the corner of the massive sectional.
“Besides,” he starts rambling, not even sure why he’s still talking, “there’s literally no reason to lie. There’s no one around here who knows the truth.”
“You never really made friends here, did you?” she says, as he joins her on the couch, shoving himself into the opposite corner.
“No time. I spent the summers on digs to keep my foot in the door in that field and during the school year, it’s just . . . too busy. You were really the only one who . . .”
“Who . . .” She prompts him to finish.
“Who forced her way in,” he says, letting his eyes dance playfully at her, beyond relieved that he dodged that bullet.
“Forced. Seriously? That’s how you’re going to play it?”
“Okay, maybe I thought you were the smartest person I’d ever met and I wanted to keep you around so I could mooch off your academic success . . . maybe.”
One day he’s going to say something he can’t play off or take back and he’s going to be in for it.
“Or maybe I was the only one who’d put up with your shit?”
“And maybe I was the only one who’d put up with yours?”
“Touché,” she says and then she pauses for a second before saying, “I told Miranda about what we’re doing.”
“Did you?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, not mad, but kind of surprised.
“Well, noteverythingwe’ve been doing,” she says with a soft smile that makes his heart stutter, “but that this part isn’t real.”She twirls the ring around her finger, but her words are enough to make his chest ache again.
“And what did she say?” he asks, shifting closer, and he’s pretty sure she did too.
“She thinks we’re crazy.”
“She’s probably right,” he says, running a hand through his hair to keep himself from reaching out to stop her hand from twisting the ring and tangle it with his instead. “Does she have any other thoughts?”
She bites her lip again, just like earlier, and shit, that bottom lip, pouty and soft, might be the end of his self-control. “None that matter.”
“I bet she liked it when you told her that.”
“I didn’t say that to her, exactly.”
“But I bet she told you to call it off and you didn’t, so . . .” He tries desperately to find some way to redirect this conversation to safer ground, one that isn’t about their fake relationship.
“She didn’t actually.”