Page 362 of Faking the Goal

My gaze flicks down the hallway behind him before I look back at him, feigning mild confusion.

"I thought your girlfriend was coming."

"Oh." He blinks, as though he almost forgot she was supposed to exist. Then his expression rearranges itself into mild annoyance. "She got held up at work. She said she'd be here as soon as she can."

"Okay." I force a small smile and step aside. "She can join us when she gets here."

Conrad's gaze lingers on me before he crosses the threshold.

The moment he enters, something inside me goes taut.

He does not hesitate the way most people do when stepping into someone else's home for the first time. He does not pause to wait for me to lead him farther inside. He simply walks in as though the apartment is already familiar to him, glancing around with the relaxed curiosity of someone returning to a place he has imagined often enough that none of it feels new.

"Nice place," he says, but he's not really looking at the furniture. He's scanning, the way people do when they're cataloging exits and sightlines.

"Thanks. It's small, but—"

He sees the table.

The transformation on his expression is immediate. His eyes light up with a manic gleam, and a grin slowly stretches across his face until it borders on grotesque. It's not joy.

It's obsession made visible.

Goosebumps race across my arms.

"Taylor," he says, and his voice has this wobble in it, this thrilled, shaky quality that makes my stomach contract. "You did all this?"

Of course I didn't.

I'm many things, but stupid isn't one of them. There isn't a universe where I'd willingly spend hours cooking for the man who's spent years trying to ruin my life.

Every dish sitting on that table came from the little Italian restaurant a few blocks away. I merely transferred everything onto my own plates.

"It's nothing fancy."

His eyes never leave the food.

"It's perfect," he whispers, almost to himself.

Then he looks at me.

That same unsettling smile is still there.

"Everything's perfect."

"Please, sit. We can start without her. The food will get cold."

He sits in the chair I intended for his imaginary girlfriend. Not across from me. Next to me. Close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him, or maybe that's just the fear generating its own warmth under my skin.

I pour the wine—for both of us, because playing along means playing along all the way—and we start eating. The chicken is good. The garlic bread is still warm. Conrad cuts his food into precise, identical bites and chews each one exactly seven times before swallowing. I count because counting gives me something to focus on besides the way his eyes keep drifting to my mouth when I talk.

"So," I say, twirling pasta around my fork to keep my hands busy, "how long have you and your girlfriend been together again?"

He doesn't even have to think about it.

"A little over fourteen years."

My grip tightens around the fork, but I keep my expression neutral.