Page 38 of Read My Lips

“I think,” Simon wet his lips, actively trying to torture me, “you might need to get out of your head about all this.”

The day got better. Now he thought I was winding myself up over nothing.

“Oh you’re alright, aren’t you? You get to be—”perfect, handsome as fuck, put together“—you. I’m trying to bend my brain around having a camera shoved in my face while a stressed out camera woman choreographs me dry humping someone who’d never voluntarily kiss me, in the middle of his friends-with-benefits’ ancestral knickknacks!”

For a full decade, Simon didn’t breathe. It’s possible I broke time itself.

An ugly snort-laugh blurted out and Simon cleared his throat to crush it back in.

“Sorry.” He shook his head, still chuckling. “I shouldn’t laugh. You’re right.”

“Cheers. Great. Thanks.” Wonderful. He agreed with everything. Of course he bloody did.

“Ben.” Tilting his face in line with mine, he smoothed his thumbs along my eyebrows like that was a perfectly normal, totally acceptable thing to do to your interpreter slash fake boyfriend when he was mostly naked and pinned between your muscled thighs. “Don’t look like that.”

I flinched against the sofa cushions, batting him back. “What are you doing?” Honestly, it would have been less awkward if he’d tried to stick a finger up my bum without warning.

“Trying to get my willing conduit to relax.” Simon’s eyes crinkled warm and wholesome and so fucking amused with himself. Why had I ever called myself that? “Can I try again?”

“I guess.” I had to make a conscious effort not to tense every muscle in my body all at the same time, and just let myself stare up at him. His hands were cool, his skin taut and dry, and yeah, alright, him pushing away my frown and rubbing circles at my hairline wasn’t, you know, the worst thing in the history of the universe.

“Better?” God, he had nice eyes. Proper stop-your-heartbeat ones.

I muttered something completely shapeless.

Amusement shimmered on his lips, making my pulse drum. “Sounds more like a must try harder to me.”

Oh fuck. Was he flirting? When had anyone looked at me as close as this? Why did he even want to?

“You – uh.” Oh Jesus. If not when we were both mostly naked and he was breaking out the head massages, when was I ever going to tell him I’d like more? “You could definitely try harder.”

“Wow.” Simon double-took, sitting back on his heels. One eyebrow arched coolly. I could have died of exposure from the absence of his body heat against my groin. “Noted. Attempt failed.”

“No!” Crap. “Shit – I meant I wouldn’t mind. If you did, like, want to, you know⁠—”

“Do more, say less?” He twinkled at me, far too amused with himself. “I know.”

“Oh, you bastard!” I shoved his shoulder and Simon laughed hard enough I had to, too.

At least the closed door in the far corner meant no one else witnessed me make a tit out of myself. Shyness can’t have been why Simon glanced towards it. He brewed confidence for breakfast. It exuded from his pores like cheap body spray from a sixteen-year-old on a first date. He’d never worry about who saw what. Except, what was all that nonsense about signing in front of Temp – about me propping him up?

“You’re wrong, you know?” Simon’s Adam’s apple bobbed in the long stretch of his throat, voice notched lower. “About what I want to do to you.” Under the cat-lick of his focus, my skin prickled. “Voluntarily.”

“Oh. Right.”

Too dry, too slow, his thumb brushed my lower lip. I swear the colour of his eyes downshifted three tones.

“Why don’t you believe me?”

All the air went out of the room. It must have done – I couldn’t breathe. Who cared if none of it made sense? Who cared if I was dreaming? I could shut my eyes and brand this moment into my memory.

But how could I believe him? It was Richard he’d wanted; he’d barely even seen me before I shoved myself in his face. Except as the guy who helped him do his job. A tool, like the office computer. He didn’t – ever – do relationships. I’d be an idiot to forget he repackaged the truth every day of his life.

But what if I was the exception?

Something in his eyes said I’d break his heart calling him a liar.

Open mouthed, I grazed the rough whorl of his thumbprint, biting at the fleshy pad. His breathing hitched, tumbling into a huff of a laugh. A flicker of interest twisted into sharper focus on his face. Right now, I was the reason his eyes went molten. Who cared what his lies were? Mine were worse.