“You’ll like it,” Brayden says.
“And for you?” The waitress leans in as if she’s having an issue hearing Brayden, giving him a view down her low-cut top.
I’m sitting right here.I make a noise—definitely not a growl. Grab Brayden’s hand and thread our fingers together, tucking myself into his side.This is just for show.Yeah, I’m going to show her who Brayden is with, and it isn’t her.
Brayden glances at me, then down at the menu, studying it like he doesn’t have it memorized. Am I supposed to order for him the way he did for me as some sort of couple thing? I know what he drinks. Our kitchen certainly has enough of it: bottles and bottles of brown liquor.
Finally, he drops the menu. “I’ll have a club soda with lime.”
For a moment I think I misheard him. But I won’t show any surprise, especially when the waitress falters slightly. “Is that everything?” she asks.
“That’s what I ordered, isn’t it?” he says.
The waitress rights herself. “Be back with those in just a sec.” And she puts some sway in her hips as she leaves.
“She’s pretty,” I say after the waitress is out of earshot. Easier than,Why are you acting weird?
“Who is?” Brayden’s arm is still around my shoulders. He hasn’t removed his hand from mine.
I watch the people out on the dance floor. No one is in formal wear, exactly, but no one is wearing sweatpants and a sparkly Peaches T-shirt either. California casual is apparently Atlanta underdressed. A few phone cameras get pointed our way.Great.
Brayden must see me looking. “Do you want to dance?” he asks.
“In my sweatpants and sneakers? No thanks.”
“You really think people here will judge you?”
I lower my voice, trying not to let the words come out hoarse, but they do. “Girls like me get held to a different standard.” Because it’s too much to explain that straight-sized girls can beslouchyorcasualin the same outfit in which I’ll be consideredsloppy.
“Girls like you?” Brayden asks, as if he’s chewing that over. “I’d think the other women in here would be happy you aren’t all done up.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“Gives them a fighting chance.”
“You don’t have to…” I start. Because no one will hear him say that. But if this is what he wants—to be seen cuddled up with hiswifein public—two can play that game. I slide my hand below the polished surface of the table, squeeze the muscle of his leg, high enough to make my point.
For a moment, his body goes stiff—thigh hard against mine, breathing uneven. The way he was right after that fake kiss at our wedding party. The one that doesn’t feel so fake right this second.
Then he laughs. “Good thing I’m not the one wearing sweatpants.”
I can’t help it. I dart a look at his lap. He’s in jeans. It’s dark.Is he…?
I move over, two inches away, where I can think better. We’re not flirting. This isn’t real. This is about getting our photo taken so other people will forget those older, worse pictures of him.
A minute later, the waitress returns with our drinks. “Do you want to start a tab or pay out now?”
I’m surprised he doesn’t just have an open credit line here.
“—we’ll pay out now,” Brayden is saying. “Gonna make it an early night of things.” His hand finds its way around my side, deep under the shadow of the table. For some reason, he’s giving the waitress a hard look.
Her face falls like she’s watching her tip crater. Then she puts on a smile as fake as the lashes I’m wearing—as fake as her interest in him probably was. She’s just trying to get paid.And how is that any different from you?
“Not a problem,” she says, and turns on her high heel and heads to the next table to repeat the same process.
Which leaves me and Brayden and his club soda and my cocktail. “I don’t know if I can drink this.” I take a small sip—it really is delicious—and then another. I need to stop, so I put the glass down.
Next to me, Brayden is frowning. “I thought it was sugar that was a problem.”
