Page 81 of Fake it for Keeps

“He asked for my number. Said he wanted to see me again. I honestly thought that I’d never hear from him.” I smiled at the memory I was creating. “But he called the next day. And the day after that. And before I knew it, we were inseparable.”

“That’s like a dream come true,” Madison said wistfully.

“It kind of felt like that,” I admitted. And weirdly, as I said it, part of me wished it were true. Wished that Colt and I had met that way—accidentally, romantically, with rain and coffee and hours of conversation.

Instead of a business transaction designed to save his reputation.

“You’re so lucky,” Charlotte said. “He seems completely in love with you. The way he looks at you?” She pressed a hand to her heart. “I want that.”

“Everyone wants that,” Madison agreed. “A man who looks at you like you’re the only woman in the world.”

Guilt twisted in my stomach. These women believed what I was selling. Believed in the fairy tale I’d just spun for them.

And the worst part? I was starting to believe it too.

“Well, I should get back,” I said. “Colt’s probably looking for me.”

“Of course,” Madison said. “It was so nice meeting you. And congratulations on the engagement. You two are perfect together.”

“Thank you.” I escaped back into the hallway, my heart pounding. The story I’d told them was completely fabricated. But the feelings behind it—the wish that it could be real—those were genuine.

I was in trouble. Somewhere along the way, I’d stopped pretending to care about Colt Jesson.

And started actually caring.

I found him near the entrance, his phone still pressed to his ear. When he saw me, I saw a flash of the predator that practically devoured me on the dance floor.

“I have to go,” he said into the phone. “We’ll handle it Monday.” He hung up and reached for my hand. “Ready to get out of here?”

“God, yes.”

These people with their designer clothes and expensive jewelry and casual conversations about summering in Switzerland—they treated me like I belonged. Like I was one of them. Like I was somebody.

It was intoxicating.

And terrifying.

I needed to get out of there before I started believing my own bullshit.

When this was over, when the contract ended in July, he would be the one feeling what I’d felt that night on the beach. The humiliation. The heartbreak. The devastating realization that it had all been a lie.

That’s what I wanted. That’s what this was all about.

Take his money. Break his heart. Get even.

But as I sat in the back of his limo, champagne bubbles still fizzing in my bloodstream, the mantra felt hollow. Because that kiss hadn’t been for show.

And the way he was looking at me right now, in the dim light of the car, definitely wasn’t fake.

“Come back to my place,” he said.

He reached for my hand, brushing his thumb across the back of my knuckles. I kept replaying that damn kiss. It had been so good. A tease. Like the tiniest nibble of the best chocolate in the whole world.

I should say no. Should go home to my apartment, to my roommates, to the safety of my own space where I could think clearly.

But I didn’t want to think clearly.

I wanted to feel.