Page 229 of Faking the Goal

Her breath catches.

It's small enough that nobody else would notice, but I feel it with her sitting this close to me. Her smile disappears as she pulls back just slightly, hazel eyes searching mine like she's waiting for the punch line.

I don't give her one.

I just look at her.

And for a few seconds, I can see the fight happening behind her eyes. She wants to believe me. Fuck, I can see that she does. There's something hopeful in the way she studies my face, like she's searching for any sign that I mean exactly what I said, but there's uncertainty there too. Like believing me would mean taking one step farther than she knows how to take.

Come on, trouble.

Believe me.

Then one corner of her mouth lifts.

There it is.

That familiar little spark returns to her eyes as she raises a finger between us and gives it a playful wag.

"Ohhh, no." She shakes her head, grinning again. "You almost got me twice in under five minutes. Very impressive, Sunshine. Dangerous, even."

I sigh, unable to hide a little of my disappointment, but I can't exactly blame her for not believing me. As far as Taylor knows, this is still the same arrangement we agreed to from the beginning.

She has no idea that I meant every fucking word.

If anything, her reaction only makes me more determined to put an end to this soon, so that the next time I tell her how fucking hard I've fallen for her, there won't be a single doubt in her mind that I mean it.

CHAPTER 30

TAYLOR

By nine-thirty, the Student Media office has dwindled down to four people.

Janice is buried behind one of the desktop monitors across the room, muttering under her breath every time somebody submits an article with the wrong formatting. Two of the other staffers are working at the long table near the windows, arguing quietly over headlines for tomorrow morning's website update, while I've spent the better part of an hour sorting through nearly three hundred photographs from this afternoon's spring semester involvement fair.

Three hundred.

Of which approximately two hundred and fifty are blurry pictures of people blinking, talking with their mouths full, or standing awkwardly behind folding tables while trying to convince freshmen that joining their club will somehow change their lives.

Photojournalism. So glamorous.

I lean closer to my laptop and compare two nearly identical shots of the dean shaking hands with the president of one of the student organizations. The second has better composition, but the first doesn't make either of them look like they're being held hostage, so congratulations, Photograph Number 187. You've survived the cut.

I flag it for publication, adjust the exposure slightly, and start typing the caption beneath it.

A few minutes later, my bladder starts protesting all the coffee I've had tonight, so I save my work and push back from the desk. I need to use the bathroom.

"I'll be back," I tell no one in particular as I push away from the desk and stand.

My camera is still hanging around my neck from earlier, and I leave it there rather than bothering to take it off. I've gotten so used to carrying the damn thing lately that sometimes I don't even notice the weight anymore.

The hallway outside the office is almost completely empty.

The Student Media suite is on the second floor of Ridgeline Hall, one of the university's newer student-life buildings. It only opened this semester, and half the offices still don't have permanent occupants yet. Student Media shares the floor with a handful of other organizations, but most of them cleared out hours ago.

During the day, the building feels bright and busy.

At night, the building is eerily quiet.