“Well, you can’t be the only actor between the two of us. I’ve got to throw in some moves for at least the supporting actress nomination. I feel like you’re carrying the team on your back right now.”
“I’m glad you see it that way.” He takes a mouthful of his mashed potatoes. “Because that’s exactly what’s happening. About time you carry some weight around here.”
“Are you saying I’m not holding up my end of the bargain?”
“I’m saying you can pretend you like me more.” He takes a sip of water from the glass in front of him and sets it down.
“My body language is pointed toward you, and that’s a good sign. What more can I do without making a scene . . . like dry-humping your lap?”
“Dry-humping at a wedding? Class, Blakely. Show some fucking class.”
That makes us both laugh.
“My apologies. How about this.” Bringing my hand to the back of his neck, I lightly play with the small hairs at his nape. “Does this work?”
“It’s a start,” he says as he places his hand on my exposed thigh from my slit and then slides it high, making my entire body twitch with anticipation. “This is better.”
“Oh, I see,” I say as I move in closer, causing his hand to move higher, almost to the juncture of my thigh. I move my other hand to his chest, where I undo another button and slide my hand along his exposed skin. “God, you’re so muscular,” I say, loving how his heated skin warms my palm. When our eyes connect, I ask, “This better?”
“Much,” he says, his thumb sliding over my thigh.
No one can see his hand—it’s blocked by the chair and the table—and nor can they see his thumb moving back and forth, but it feels right, like that minor stroke is playing the part.
And that’s what we’re doing, right? We’re playing a part.
We’re acting.
Yet when he looks into my eyes, it doesn’t feel like he’s acting. It feels like he’s seeing straight into my soul.
“I bet he’s watching,” I say.
“How could he not?” Halsey says. “You’re breathtaking.”
Butterflies erupt in my stomach because, oh my God, he’s playing with my freaking heart.
Does he mean that? Is he just saying that in the hopes that Perry can read lips? Because he can’t, not that I know of at least.
Unsure of what to say, I reply, “You’rebreathtaking.”
He chuckles. “Yeah? You think so?”
I smooth my hand over his rock-hard chest. “Yes, just feel this, it’s so strong. Who knew a chest could be like this?”
“Perry wasn’t much of a weightlifter?” he asks.
I glance over at Perry who’s speaking with the older woman next to him. I shake my head. “More of a runner. He kept in shape, but he didn’t lift or anything like that.”
“What do you prefer?”
“This,” I say, running my thumb over his chest.
“Good.” He turns toward me and interlocks our legs so one of mine is between his. He keeps his hand on my thigh as he says, “What else do you prefer?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if this intimate conversation is part of the show. Is he trying to make me blush, make me swoon for the show of it, or is this real?
Why am I even thinking it’s real?
He’s way out of my league. No way would someone like Halsey even consider me for anything intimate.
