Page 133 of Faking the Goal

My hand on her waist. Her body against mine. Those lips finally—

Jesus fucking Christ.

My throat goes dry. My heart gives one hard thump against my ribs, followed by several more that have absolutely no business happening while I'm sitting perfectly still on a couch. Heat creeps up the back of my neck and straight into my ears.

I'm twenty fucking years old and apparently the word kissing is enough to make me blush like a twelve-year-old.

"I... know."

The answer comes a fraction too late and considerably rougher than the last two.

I clear my throat.

This may have been a terrible fucking idea.

Not because I don't want to do any of those things.

That's exactly the problem.

If Taylor agrees to this, I'll be allowed to touch her. Hold her hand. Put my arm around her. Pull her against me. Kiss her and pretend it doesn't mean anything when I already know damn well it will mean something to me.

I'll have to do everything I've been trying not to want and somehow remember that, for her, it's part of an arrangement.

Yeah.

This is going to be fucking torture.

"...You're being weird."

One eyebrow lifts. "How so?"

"Because this..." She gestures toward me. "This is so unlike you. You're the guy who avoids unnecessary drama like it's contagious. You don't stick your nose into other people's problems. You keep your head down, mind your business, and disappear the second social interaction becomes optional." She studies me carefully. "So I don't get it. Why would you do this?"

Because I like you.

The answer comes immediately.

I keep it to myself.

"Because I care about you, Taylor."

Her expression stills.

"I know I haven't done a very good job of showing it. Actually, I've done a pretty spectacular job of convincing you of the exact opposite." I grimace. "But I do. And after everything you told me tonight, there's no fucking way I can know this is happening to you and just go home and pretend it's none of my business."

I grab and squeeze her hand.

"That's why I'm offering."

That's the truth.

Helping her is the main reason I offered. But sitting here now, thinking about what this arrangement would actually mean if she says yes, I can't ignore the possibility it puts in front of me either.

We'd be spending more time together. Doing all the things real couples do. And even if the relationship itself is fake, I don't have to fake my part of it. I can be myself with her. Let her see that the judgmental asshole she met isn't all there is to me.

And if I'm really fucking lucky, maybe all that time together will do more than earn back her trust.

The thought sends a strange flicker of hope through my chest.