“I think you like me,” he says, cocky.
“Like you? I don’t evenknowyou,” I say at the exact time I’m interrupted by a female voice.
“Good morning.”
It’s the record scratch that sends both Xander and me snapping our heads to the door because that voice sounds a lot like …
Dr. Waitley.
“Can I have a word with you two in my office, once you’re dressed?” she says. That was a dig at me, since Xander managed to get fully clothed in the span of our fight.
The question is rhetorical. Of course we’re going to her office once we’re dressed. Which is why she doesn’t wait for a reply and disappears.
I stare at the door.
We’re fucked.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We’re back sitting in Dr. Waitley’s office, opposite her. I can’t believe we only made it a week before we got caught. Still, that hasn’t stopped us from launching a full-blown PR campaign. We! Are! Together!
We haven’t stopped touching each other, both of us with a mutual understanding that we need to fix this poor performance from daytime Emmy to Oscar worthy.
Xander put his hand on my back as he guided me through the bedroom. I reached out and we held hands as we marched to the gallows. Xander pulled his chair close to mine when we arrived at her office so we could continue to present the picture of a perfect couple.
Will the simple act of Xander’s hands on me create a tectonic event that’s going to set alarm bells off at the Cal Tech Seismological Laboratory?
Hands that have gripped my waist. Dug into my pelvis. Rocked my hips.
Ignore it.
I look over at Xander, who unleashes his now infamous sickly sweet smile he used the last time we were in this room that won us a coveted spot in this sleep study, before he reaches over to brush a strand of hair from my cheek. The act shouldn’t have any effect on me. Because I am part of this performance. I see how the sausage is made. I’ve seen him switch it on and more importantly, switch it off. And yet, I can’t stop myself from swooning.
Stop that right now, Ash.
You’re in the equivalent of detention.
Xander’s ability to go from freaking the fuck out back in our sleep study room to doting, caring boyfriend is remarkable. I guess that’s why they pay him the big bucks. Although, I’d like to thank myself for the rousing half-time speech worthy of winning the Superbowl.
We can do this.
We’ve convinced Dr. Waitley before.
We can do it again.
We’ve just got to keep it as close to the truth as possible.
Now, my bravado starts to waver under Dr. Waitley’s piercing eyes as she studies us, her gaze methodically moving from one of us to the other. Like one of us is going to snitch. My fingers curl tighter around Xander’s, and he reciprocates. We’re in this together.
“Our sleep study is affiliated with UC Berkeley,” she says, her voice sharp like she’s lecturing a hall full of unruly students. “We are able to pay our participants because this sleep study enhances the educational programs.”
The guilt starts curdling my stomach juices. I feel physically ill.
“What is going on with you two?” Dr. Waitley comes on heavy, turning this detention into an interrogation.
“Can you explain what you mean?” Xander replies, his timing perfect. He didn’t jump to answer. He didn’t wait too long to question it. In this moment, I realize that Xander is a professional and he will get us through this.
“Setting off the heart rate monitors. Fighting like cats and dogs. Your actions are compromising the integrity of this sleep study.” She stares me down, like I’m the weak one. It’s hard to believe this is the same Dr. Waitley who was rattled by my confession about our active sex life. She is scary. A fierce protector of knowledge.
