“I think it’s necessary.”
She steps closer again. Always pushing. “You’re afraid.”
I lean down slightly. “I’m not afraid of kissing you.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
I meet her eyes squarely. “Not stopping.”
The air between us crackles again.
Her chest rises slowly. “That’s not exactly reassuring.”
“It’s honest.”
She searches my face for something—weakness, maybe. Hesitation.
She won’t find it.
“I don’t want careful,” she says quietly.
“Then stop provoking me in church parking lots.”
Her mouth curves faintly. “Make me.”
I step into her space again, lowering my voice. “You keep daring me, Hotshot.”
“Maybe I want you to.”
My hand slides to her hip again. The contact feels inevitable now. “Keep pushing,” I murmur, “and this stops being fake in a way you can’t undo.”
She swallows. “Maybe I don’t want to undo it.”
The crowd noise swells around us again, but we’re locked in our own gravity.
I force myself to step back.
“Help clean up,” I say evenly.
Her eyes flash with frustration. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah.”
“But you’re thinking about it.”
“Constantly.”
She exhales sharply. “Good.”
I turn to grab a broom before I change my mind and haul her back under that damn table.
Because if I trap her under there again—if she whispers one more reckless thing—I won’t be the one pulling away.
And that’s the problem.
Because fake dating was supposed to be easy.
Controlled.
