Page 29 of Faking the Heat

“Ahhh I see what's up now.” Jake voice cuts through the mechanical hum. He’s leaning against the brick wall, slow grin spread across his face, “You’re doing it again, Hayes,”

“Doing what?” I grunt, my voice muffled under the hood. “I’m checking the pressure lines. It’s called maintenance, Lawson, what people do when they’re not busy leaning against walls looking like cover models for mediocre firefighters.”

Jake chuckles, a low, irritating sound that scrapes at my nerves. He pushes off the wall and strolls over, flicking a crumpled piece of paper toward the trash can. He misses. Doesn’t even blink.

“I’m talking about the ‘Mandy Stare,’” he says, stepping into the bay with surgical precision. “You look like you’re trying to solve a physics equation on the curvature of her ass and failing miserably.” He puts both hands behind his head, like he’s settling in for the long version. “So, what happened, exactly? Did you finally do something about it, or are you still running the slowest campaign in the history of relationships?”

“Nothing happened,” I say, and this time it’s almost true. “We had dinner. Her parents were in town. That’s it.”

I roll out from under the hood and wipe my hands on a greasy rag with more force than necessary. My jaw tightens, my eyes narrow. “It’s an act, Jake. For her parents. You know the deal. Mandy needed help, I’m helping. End of story.”

“Sure, sure,” he says, grin going predatory as he claps a hand on my shoulder, fingers digging in. “By the way, I spotted the photos her mom posted on online. Your sister sent me the link. Very convincing. The way you’re holding her? Brando would be jealous. You should nab a local Emmy for ‘Best Performance in a Role You’re Definitely Not Faking.’

Pretending to be in love with someone you actually are in love with, that’s a bold strategy, Saint Sterling. Most guys would just buy a girl a drink. But you? You sign up for high-stakes theater: forced proximity, shared rent. You’ve turned your life into a romance novel without a single honest date.”

“I’m not in love with her,” I say, and I hate how hollow it sounds to my own ears. “We’re friends. Have been just friends for six years. She lost her home, her folks are… a lot. I’m just offering a hand. A service. Isn’t that what we do? Help people.”

Jake lets out a sharp, barking laugh that ricochets off the concrete floor, earning us a few curious glances from the guys at the bench. “A service, huh? And I’m the Queen of England. Listen, man, I’ve watched you walk into burning buildings without flinching. Pull people out of car wrecks that looked like crushed up soda cans, calm as a Sunday morning.”

I turn back to the engine and start recoiling hose I already coiled a few minutes ago.

“You don’t fixate on a random shit for that kind of ‘service.’” He continues. You fixate when you’re terrified of losing something you haven’t even admitted you have. I think you’re just afraid of being happy.”

I stare at the wall. “What does that even mean?”

He says, “It means you’ve got a good thing, and instead of just letting it be good, you’re pulling away. You do it every time. You want to know how I know that? Because the last time you looked this fucked up, it was after that one-night stand with the paramedic, and you spent a week pretending you weren’t in love before you ghosted her on her birthday.”

I groan. “Not the same.”

He shrugs. “Different flavors, same snack.”

I roll my eyes.

“Maybe I just don’t want to mess it up.”

I glance over to find Jake, eyebrows at half-mast, a look on his face like he’s just witnessed an act of nature. He doesn’t even have to say it. The verdict is clear.

Jake turns away and almost gets to the door before he calls out, voice just loud enough to sting. “You know, the best part about pretending is when you forget it’s a performance.”

I don’t turn around. Don’t even look back.

“Go away, Jake,” I mutter, voice tight. “I have work to do. These lines aren’t going to check themselves.”

“Whatever you say, Romeo,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads back to the dayroom. “Don’t forget your lines at the big opening on Friday. Shame if the audience found out the leading man’s actually feeling his part. You’re a terrible liar, Sterling. Always have been. That’s why you’re a good man, but a shitty actor.”

I stare down at the engine, metal cold and unyielding under my hands. I think about how her hand felt in mine last night, small, warm, perfectly fitted to my palm. I think about the way she looked at me when I told that jazz-bar story, like she was seeing me for the first time. I’m a firefighter. I manage chaos, control the environment, keep flames from spreading. But I’m standing here in the quiet of the bay and the fire is already inside my own house, and I have no idea how to put it out without burning everything down.

Chapter fourteen

The Shadow of the Ex

Mandy

The Inked Teacup smells like Hibiscus tea and quiet possibilities, but the atmosphere curdles the second I smell the sandalwood and expensive tailoring. It's a scent that used to mean safety, or at least the corporate version of it, until it started to feel like a silk tie tightening around my windpipe. The clink of porcelain and the low hum of indie folk music from the speakers seem to dim, replaced by the heavy thud of my own heartbeat. I don't even have to look up from my laptop to know who just sat down across from me without asking.

“You're still using that font, Mandy? I thought we discussed its legibility issues last Christmas,” Derek says. His voice is a smooth, low-frequency hum that manages to vibrate with unearned authority. He doesn't wait for a greeting. He just exists in my space, taking up more air than he's entitled to, looking like he stepped straight out of a luxury watch advertisement in a navy blue suit that probably costs more than my entire freelance income for the quarter.

I slowly close my laptop, my fingers trembling just enough to be annoying. I hate that he still has that effect, the ability to make me feel like a student caught doodling in the margins of a textbook.