Something I might have imagined.
Something he hid too fast.
I lifted my chin because I needed my pride back. Because my mouth was swollen, my body was humming, and my fake boyfriend had just kissed me like he wanted to ruin the concept of distance forever.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” I said.
His grin deepened.
“Baby, you moaned.”
My face went hot enough to light the beach.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“That was outrage.”
“That was not outrage.”
“You are delusional.”
“You’re in my jersey, kissing me back, and lying badly.” His hand slid up my side, stopping at my waist. “I’m having a great night.”
I should have stepped back.
Instead, I stayed exactly where I was, caught between his body and the ocean, between anger and want, between a fake relationship and a very real problem.
“You’re still an ass,” I said.
“Yeah.” His voice softened, just a fraction. “But I’m your ass.”
The words should have been a joke.
They weren’t. And that was the danger of Drew Travers.
He said impossible things with that wicked mouth, wrapped them in arrogance, and left just enough truth underneath to make me wonder if I was the only one pretending.
I pressed one hand to his chest, right over the hard beat of his heart.
“For now,” I said.
His gaze sharpened.
Then his smile came back, bright and cocky and protective enough to make me furious.
“For now,” he agreed.
By the time we left the bonfire, I had sand in my boots, Drew’s taste still on my tongue, and a deep suspicion that fake dating had become the most dangerous sport at Stanford.
Drew drove one-handed, his other hand resting on the console between us like he was giving me the option to take it without making it obvious.
I did not take it.
Mostly because I wanted to.
The Pacific slipped by in dark flashes beyond the windows, moonlight catching on the water whenever the road curved close enough. Drew had turned the music low, some old rock song with a rough guitar line and a man singing like love had ruined his credit score. Neither of us spoke for the first few minutes.
