“You are exhausting.”
“And yet.”
“And yet what?”
He leaned down, voice dropping near my ear. “You love me.”
The world stopped.
Not the airport.
The airport kept moving. Suitcases crashed onto the belt. A child cried near the rental car signs. Someone paged a passenger over the intercom. Christmas music floated above us, cheerful and oblivious.
But I stopped.
So did Drew.
I felt the realization hit him through his hand before it reached his face.
He straightened, his expression flickering once.
There.
Gone.
Then he shrugged like the word hadn’t just landed between us like a grenade.
“You know,” he said. “Fake-love me. Public relations. Very convincing performance. Five stars.”
My heart was beating too hard.
Too high.
Too loud.
I forced my mouth to move. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Part of the appeal.”
“Debatable.”
“You keep debating with your mouth and agreeing with your hands.”
I looked down.
My fingers were still locked around his.
I pulled away.
He let me.
That hurt more than if he’d held on.
A black suitcase slammed onto the carousel in front of us. Drew grabbed it one-handed. Mine came next. He grabbed that too before I could reach it.
“I can get my own bag.”
“I know.”
