I opened my mouth.
He pointed at me. “Before you complain, athletes eat constantly. You’re rehabbing. I’m trying to keep this hot body firing on all cylinders. Everybody wins.”
“What body?” I rolled my eyes, because apparently I had chosen violence.
He just stared at me.
Then he slowly gestured to himself.
The entire booth somehow became hotter.
“Six thousand calories a day,” he said. “Give or take. Do you know what it takes to maintain this level of elite campus resource?”
“A medical team and delusion?”
“Carbs, baby. Carbs and God’s favor.”
I rolled my eyes, but my mouth betrayed me. It did that small almost-smile thing I hated because Drew noticed it every single time.
“There she is,” he said softly.
My stomach dipped.
No. Absolutely not.
I reached for my water and took a sip I did not need. “Keep going with your fake-dating constitution, Travers.”
His gaze stayed on me for one beat longer than necessary before he continued. “Rule three. Hand-holding. Yes. Public touching. Yes. Me kissing you in corners in front of everybody—also yes.”
My water went down wrong.
Drew’s smile turned wicked. “Problem?”
“I’m sorry, did you say kissing me in corners like that was a scheduled athletic requirement?”
“Only when necessary.”
“When would it be necessary?”
“When people are watching. When Casey is nearby. When your teammates are being fake as hell. When Vale walks into a room looking like a sad perfume ad. When I feel like it.”
“That last one is not a valid strategic reason.”
“It is if I’m committed to the role.”
“You are impossible.”
“Yep.” His teeth flashed. “That’s why you love me. Smile, people are watching.”
Before I could ask what people, his hand came across the table and wrapped around mine.
I froze.
It was not dramatic. Not at first. Just his large hand closing over mine, warm and sure, his thumb settling against the inside of my wrist like he had already been there a hundred times. The diner kept moving around us—plates clattering, fryer hissing, some guy at the counter arguing about extra pickles—but the booth shrank down to the exact point where Drew’s finger started moving.
Slow.
Back and forth.
