Jonah studies me for a long moment, the anger gradually fading, replaced by something that looks disturbingly like pity. “I need time to think about this—I’m going for a hike. I’ll see you at the party tomorrow night.”
Translation:go home.
He turns to leave, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I think after that kiss I just saw—you’re both already getting burned.”
As he walks away, I stand rooted to the spot, his words echoing in my head.
Playing with fire.
God, I know deep down he’s right. Because the feeling of Sydney in my arms, her lips against mine, her body pressed against me, the hot water—it felt like something I’ve been waiting for my whole life.
12
Let The Games Begin
SYDNEY
It’s Saturday morning back at Maisie’s, and yesterday, I was mildly successful at talking Jonah down from his homicidal rage, although my arguments sound completely bizarro. “Yes, Jonah, we’re actually fake-dating to save my career and make his dying grandmother happy. And that kiss you walked in on? Yes, it was just practice.”
He didn’t buy it because he has a brain cell. That kiss wasn’t fake. Not even close.
My lips still tingle from the memory of Brooks’ mouth on mine. And, sorry Stephanie Berger, but Brooks doesnotkiss like a rattlesnake, and he’s right—heisvery skilled with his tongue.
The way his hands felt tangled in my hair. The sound he made—half grunt, half growl—when I raked my nails down his back. That was not the cautious, clinical exercise we’d planned. That was... combustion.
Chemistry.
Catastrophe.
The en-suite bathroom door that connects to Brooks’ bedroom opens, and I whirl around so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. Brooks steps out looking frustratingly attractive with his hair wet from the shower. He’s fully dressed, which he clearly did himself, and I have to fight back the urge to tell him not to do that because it hurts him. He takes one look at me and says, “You’re still torn up. Jonah?”
“Yeah.” I bite my lip.
“He might get why we’re doing it—soon.” He moves his arm, wincing.
“I hope so—and before he hires a hitman. But what about that kiss—?”
“We need to get going,” he interrupts. “Don’t want to be late for our big debut.”
And just like that, we’re not talking about the kiss.
Fine by me. I have enough to worry about with our first sports broadcast looming. Whatever temporary thing possessed us can be filed away under “Items We Will Never Discuss,” right next to the time I drunkenly admitted I found his hockey thighs “stunningly unfair” at Jonah’s twenty-first birthday party.
I grab my bag, thinking about how my brother’s anger seems overblown, honestly. Brooks and I are grownups now—and I can handle myself.
Brooks holds the door open for me, a surprising gesture of chivalry from the guy who once filled my sneakers with maple syrup, and we’re off.
My stomach pretzels as we speed toward Boise,and it’s not just about my brother’s wrath—it’s the highway stretching before us like a nightmare I’ve been avoiding for six months.
“You okay?” Brooks’ eyes flick between me and the road. His hands rest easy on the steering wheel, like driving seventy miles per hour is as natural as breathing. Must be nice.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
A green highway sign for Boise looms ahead—twelve miles to go—and my chest tightens. I close my eyes and try to focus on my breathing, but all I can hear is the squeal of tires, the crunch of metal, the silence that followed.
“Sydney?” Brooks’ voice cuts through the rising panic. “Hey, look at me.”
I open my eyes to find him glancing at me with genuine concern. “I’m okay,” I insist, though I’m white-knuckling the door handle.
