The guy in the mirror barely looks like me—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, swollen lips. I’m still hard enough to ache inside my jeans, and I close my eyes, trying to will it down.
What the fuck was that?
It was supposed to be a performance. A way to make Noah’s ex jealous. A way to help him save face. But something happened the second our mouths met, something I wasn’t ready for, something that made me stop caring why I was kissing him in the first place.
I turn on the cold water and splash my face, trying to shock some sense back into myself. Water runs down from my chin as I grip the sink and stare at my reflection.
This is a favor, I remind myself. Noah asked me to play a part.
Whatever just happened, I need to get it under control. This weekend is complicated enough already without me catching real feelings for my fake boyfriend.
Feelings I absolutely, definitely do not have.
CHAPTER 7. Noah
I close my eyes and let my forehead rest against the cold tile as steam rises around me. Last night keeps replaying on a loop—the wine, the dark cottage, Connor’s hands on me, the heat that shot through me the second our lips touched.
Fuck.
I turn the water colder, hoping it might clear my head, or at least cool the heat that keeps flushing through my body every time I replay the kiss. It was clearly Connor’s way of helping me make Rick jealous, of making this whole fake relationship feel real. But the moment he kissed me, everything else disappeared.
Rick’s engagement announcement should be the thing tearing me apart right now. After three years together—three years of sneaking around, of empty promises about someday—he’s engaged to Cassidy Whitmore.
And yet here I am, unable to focus on any of that, because all I can think about is the way Connor backed me against the wall, the press of his hips against mine, the sound he made when I slid my hands under his shirt.
I squeeze shampoo into my palm too hard, and a blob slips down my arm. My chest feels tight, my stomach hollow. This wasn’t part of the plan. Connor was supposed to be a shield, a buffer, a way to get through this weekend with my dignityintact. He wasn’t supposed to kiss me like that—like he meant it, like he wanted me—and I definitely wasn’t supposed to respond by getting instantly, embarrassingly hard.
I groan and scrub at my scalp too roughly, my nails dragging against my skin. What must he think of me now? The awkwardness between us was impossible to miss once we finally pulled apart. He practically bolted for the bathroom, leaving me standing there with an obvious erection and a head full of scrambled thoughts. When he came out, we did that awful dance of getting ready for bed without looking at each other, which was bad enough. And now I have to face him in daylight.
Oh God.
The cold water isn’t helping. Nothing is helping. Because the humiliating truth is that I lay awake for hours after Connor fell asleep, my body still thrumming with a need that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times I told myself it wasn’t real. I barely slept at all, and when I finally gave up and got out of bed, Connor was still asleep beside me.
I rinse the shampoo from my hair, keeping my eyes closed as water streams down my face. I could deal with it if this were only physical—a reaction to being kissed by someone who clearly knows what he’s doing after months of celibacy. But the ache in my chest when Connor pulled away, the way I wanted to chase his mouth with mine, tells me it’s already more than that.
How did I let this happen?
This is a job for him. A favor for a neighbor. Nothing more. The kiss was just part of the act, a performance. But now I’ve made it weird by getting too into it, by crossing the line between pretending and wanting.
I shut off the water and dry myself off roughly, the towel harsh against my skin. The bathroom is thick with steam, the mirror completely fogged over—which feels appropriate, considering how clouded my thoughts are.
By the time this weekend is over, Connor will go back to being my neighbor. We’ll nod at each other in the hallway, exchange pleasantries about the weather or the broken washing machine, and that’ll be it. I’ll be stuck with another stupid, hopeless crush, and he’ll probably avoid me because I made things awkward.
I brush my teeth, get dressed in jeans and a blue henley, and try to prepare myself for facing Connor.
When I open the bathroom door, cool air hits my overheated skin. Connor is sitting on the edge of the bed in a gray T-shirt and boxer shorts, his hair mussed from sleep, one knee bent as he rubs a hand over his face.
“Morning,” he says, his voice rough. “You’re up early. Everything okay?”
I hesitate, my throat tight. “Yeah. Just didn’t sleep well.” I can’t meet his eyes. I’m too afraid he’ll see right through me—realize I replayed our kiss half the night and still haven’t stopped.
He was acting. I wasn’t. How pathetic is that?
Connor stands and stretches his arms over his head. “Bathroom free now?” he asks.
“All yours.” I step aside to let him pass, and he gives me a wider berth than necessary, like he’s being careful not to touch me.
My stomach sinks. So it is weird between us now. Great.
