Page 215 of Faking the Goal

Or the place. Or... ever.

"Come on." I unbuckle my seatbelt. "Let me walk you to your door so you can get your much-needed beauty sleep."

Taylor's head whips toward me so fast I'm surprised she doesn't pull a muscle. A cute little pout immediately forms on her lips.

"...What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're tired."

"Mhm." She narrows her eyes. "And?"

"...And nothing."

"No, no." She points an accusing finger at me. "Don't 'nothing' me. Are you saying I look haggard?"

I make the mistake of glancing at her face.

"...Well..." I lift a hand and make a vague gesture toward her. "You do look a little..."

"A little what?"

I purse my lips, pretending to study her face while trying not to smile.

"...roughed up?"

"Oh my God!"

Before I can stop her, she flips the sun visor down and immediately checks herself in the mirror. Both hands fly to her face as she pats her cheeks, leaning closer.

"My concealer's gone, isn't it?" She squints at her reflection. "Wait... do I have mascara under my eyes? Is my eyeliner smudged? Kentaro Azuma, answer me honestly. Do I look like I've been dragged through a hedge backwards?"

I can't hold it in anymore.

A laugh bursts out of me, loud enough that I actually have to lean back against the headrest. She's still inspecting every inch of her face with the most adorably offended expression, somehow looking even cuter the more disgruntled she becomes.

Taylor slowly turns toward me, narrowing her eyes.

"You know..." She points a finger at me. "I remember telling you that you should smile more because you always looked like you wanted to punch the world."

I swipe at the corner of my eye, still laughing.

"But I don't remember giving you permission to start making fun of me."

"I'm sorry," I manage, though another laugh slips out and completely ruins the apology.

"Liar."

"...Okay, maybe I'm only a little sorry."

She lets out an exaggerated huff.

"I'm only kidding," I say, finally getting myself under control. "You know that."

She continues eyeing herself suspiciously in the mirror for another second before snapping the visor shut with a dramatic sigh.

What I don't tell her is that she could've woken up with bedhead pointing in twelve different directions, dark circles twice as bad as they are now, and pillow creases stamped across her face, and I'd still think she was beautiful. Hell, she could walk out here wearing an old potato sack with dirt on her cheeks and I'd probably still forget how to form complete sentences.

I swallow the words before they can reach my mouth.