“It was cheaply made.”
“Sure.”
“I don’t care who touches your arm, Drew.”
He stopped in the hallway and turned to me, still holding my bag, still holding my hand, still looking much too pleased with himself.
“Good.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Good?”
“Yeah. Because if you cared, that would mean you were jealous.”
“I’m not.”
“Exactly.” He started walking again. “So we agree.”
I hated him.
I hated his shoulders.
I hated his confidence.
I hated that he smelled like soap and coffee and something clean underneath, and that my hand looked stupidly small inside his.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” I muttered.
“Fake dating you?” He glanced down at me. “Yeah, Texas. Kind of am.”
That should have been a joke.
It did not land like one.
By lunch, the campaign had officially gone prime time.
Drew insisted that eating together counted as rule compliance and dragged me to the athletic cafeteria, which was less a dining hall and more a high-performance feeding station for people with impossible metabolisms and too many ice packs.
I had eaten there plenty of times with soccer.
But never with Drew.
That was different.
Walking in beside him changed the room.
Football players called out. A couple basketball guys looked over. My teammates turned from one of the long tables, eyesgoing straight to our joined hands. A girl from volleyball smiled like she knew something I did not.
Drew did not slow down.
He kept me tucked beside him, not behind him, not hidden under his arm like an accessory. Beside him. Like the room could look all it wanted and he had already decided where I belonged.
Which was fake.
Obviously.
We were in the food line when a girl with glossy black hair and a sorority sweatshirt appeared at Drew’s other side.
“Travers,” she sang. “There you are.”
