“Fake dating for the sake of your security,” Bash confirmed, and something in his smile made my heart do a happy little skip. “Think you can handle pretending to be my boyfriend?”
The wordboyfriendsent an entirely inappropriate thrill through me. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
But even as I agreed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were walking into territory far more dangerous than either of us realized. Because sitting there looking at Bash—really looking at him, knowing that he understood me in a way no one else ever had—I knew that the hardest part about fake dating him wouldn’t be making it look real.
It would be remembering that it wasn’t.
6
BASH
The International Relations Department faculty lounge looked like someone had raided the clearance section of an office furniture store. Fluorescent lighting cast an unflattering glow over mismatched chairs and tables that had probably been in use since the nineties. Faculty members in wrinkled blazers mingled with seniors clutching plastic cups while some indeterminable jazz music played in the background.
I blew out a breath as I quickly catalogued the exits. Three big windows, a double entrance door, and an emergency exit in the right back corner.
“Well,” Eddie murmured as we paused in the doorway, “this is certainly… atmospheric.”
I had to bite back a laugh. He had such a way with words, the king of understatements. “That’s one word for it.”
Glenn would’ve said,An attempt was made, and that thought made me smile despite the ever-present stab of pain his absence always brought.
“Eddie! Bash!” Sarah practically launched herself across the room toward us. “Oh my god, you guys came together again!”
Behind her, Kolby, Jessica, and Tom from our study group made their way over as well.
“Of course they came together,” Jessica said, quirking an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t they if they’re a couple?”
My insides tightened, and I felt Eddie tense beside me. The unspoken challenge in her words was clear. This was it. This was the moment where we either committed to this charade or found ourselves fielding increasingly awkward questions about our closeness for the rest of the year.
Eddie glanced at me, something unreadable flickering across his face, then turned back to our classmates with that practiced smile I was beginning to recognize as his public persona. “Why would I not come together with my boyfriend?”
Boyfriend.
He’d said it out loud, and there was no going back now.
I plastered an equally fake smile on my face. If we had to sell this, we needed more than words, and so I reached for his hand and threaded our fingers together. “Exactly.”
The casual intimacy of it—the way my thumb brushed across his knuckles, the way he squeezed my hand for a moment in response—sent electricity straight up my arm and directly into every part of my brain responsible for making smart decisions.
This was supposed to be fake. This was supposed to be cover. This was supposed to be professional. So why did it feel like the most honest thing that had happened to me in years?
Before anyone could ask for more specifics, Professor Belk appeared at my elbow with a plate of what appeared to be cheese cubes that had seen better days.
“Mr. Puller, Mr. York,” he said with a forced enthusiasm. Maybe faculty attendance at this mixer wasn’t entirely voluntary. “So good to see you both here. Are you enjoying the refreshments?”
Eddie glanced at the sad arrangement of crackers and processed cheese. “I haven’t had the pleasure yet,” he managed diplomatically.
“Would you care for some hors d’oeuvres?” Professor Belk offered.
Eddie blinked, then looked at me, as if he didn’t understand what the man was offering.
“Thank you, Professor Belk, but we’ll start with some drinks. Please excuse us,” I said quickly, then put my hand on Eddie’s lower back and gently steered us away from the others.
“What was he offering?” Eddie asked softly.
“Hors d’oeuvres,” I repeated, pronouncing it the same way professor Belk had, likehorse d’oovres. Was that not something the British were familiar with?
Eddie frowned for a moment, but then his face lit up and he snorted, the most ungentleman-like sound I’d heard him make so far. “You mean hors d’oeuvres?” he asked, pronouncing them in what was probably correct French.
