Page 52 of Fake it for Keeps

The thought hurt more than it should have. More than I wanted to admit.

I carefully extracted myself from Colt’s embrace, trying not to wake him as I slid to the far edge of the bed. He made a small sound of protest in his sleep but didn’t wake, just rolled onto his back.

I turned to face him. In the faint light, I was able to study him. His face was relaxed in sleep, the hard edges softened. He looked almost vulnerable.

I watched the steady rise and fall of his chest and wondered what he dreamed about. If he ever had nightmares. If there was more beneath the surface than the arrogant billionaire persona he showed the world.

Frankie seemed to think so. “You only see what he lets you see,” she’d said.

But what was I supposed to see? What was I missing?

I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling, sleep feeling impossibly far away. This was getting complicated. More complicated than I’d planned for. I was supposed to be using him. Getting revenge. Taking his money and breaking his heart the way he’d broken mine.

But lying here in the dark, listening to him breathe, feeling the residual warmth from where he’d held me, it was getting harder to remember why I hated him.

Don’t, I warned myself. Don’t let yourself soften. Don’t forget what he did. Don’t fall for whatever act he’s putting on.

I turned my head to look at him again. He’d shifted in his sleep, one arm thrown over his head, his face turned toward where I’d been lying.

Like even in sleep, he was reaching for me.

Stop romanticizing this, I told myself firmly. He’s a playboy. A user. Someone who cares about no one but himself.

I closed my eyes and forced myself to think about the beach house. About my father. About all the reasons I was doing this in the first place.

The money. The restoration. The justice.

The revenge.