“Can I point out again that you never technically asked if I was—you assumed. I was going along with it.”
She fiddles with the hem of her sweater. “That’s the literal definition of lying by omission.”
I squint. “Is it, though?”
“Yes!”
I cross my arms, leaning back into the cushions like I’m contemplating a serious philosophical debate. “I don’t know. I feel like omission is more of a gray area. It’s not like Iliedand said ‘I’m the king of the fucking woods.’ I just didn’t correct you.” I give my nonexistent beard a scratch.
“Does Annabelle know?”
No. “Obviously not. She’s too busy trying to run the event to notice. Plus, she’s not exactly hovering over me, watching my every move. I suspect the dudes who actually work for the company have figured out I’m a fraud.”
Though none of them have busted me. Or they obviously don’t recognize me. Or don’t give two shits about football. Or they’ve got a betting pool on how long it takes before I injure myself.
“I’m sorry, but this whole thing is blowing my mind. Of all the things to fake—why didn’t you tell her you have no clue what you’re doing?”
Is Lucy being serious? “Have you ever tried to back out of something after showing up day one bragging that you know what you’re doing?” I chuckle. “It’s a lot harder to admit failure when you’ve already committed to the bit.” All the peacocking around I did ...
She rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “That ego of yours is bigger than I thought it was. I’m shocked you fit through my door.”
I clutch my chest dramatically. “Ouch. You wound me, Lucy.”
She smirks. “You’ll survive.”
Her prissy little pout is so fucking cute. So sexy.
I want my mouth on her again.
“What if I told you I’m faking something else right now too?”
Her smile fades; curiosity fills her expression. “What do you mean?”
I lean in, dropping my voice. “I’m pretending that sitting this close to you isn’t driving me insane.”
Lucy scoffs. “What if I’m mad you lied to me?”
“I would say: Let me make it up to you.”
“How?”
She knows how.
Her eyes flick to my mouth, and I can see the gears turning in her head. She’s pretending to be mad, but the way her breathing changes gives her away.
I smirk, closing the distance between us inch by inch. “I’m thinking we skip the part where you stay mad and go straight to the part where I ...”
“Where you what?” she whispers, her voice barely above a breath.
I kiss her, slow at first—just a soft press of lips, though it doesn’t stay gentle for long. Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, and the second she tugs me closer, I’m done holding back.
I cup her face, deepening the kiss, and she sighs against my mouth, the sound making something hot twist low in my stomach. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers exploring like she’s memorizing every inch of me. I groan softly, and when her nails graze the back of my neck, I lose the ability to think straight.
“Still mad?” I murmur between kisses, nipping gently at her bottom lip.
She laughs breathlessly. “I don’t know. Maybe I should stay mad more often if this is how you apologize.”
Her fingers slide under the hem of my shirt, grazing the bare skin of my stomach, and I swear my brain short-circuits for a second. I pull her closer, my hand slipping around her waist, fingers splaying against her lower back as I guide her into my lap.
