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"Stop stalling," I say. "Unless you can't handle a kiss."
"I'm ready when you are." He finds the confidence in his posture.
I don't totally believe it, but I accept it at face value. I move toward Damon until I'm only a foot away, but it's not quite right. It's the wrong angle. "Let's sit down." I motion to the couch.
He moves around the cream leather and sits on the middle cushion.
I take the spot to the left of him. "We can pretend we're talking to someone. Or watching something." I motion to the blank TV screen.
"We could actually watch something," he offers.
"We'll spend so much time debating what we watch, we'll forget to practice."
"I'll let you put on The Matrix." The teasing tone returns to his voice, but it's different this time. It's an I like you kind of teasing. The way he teased me when we were kids. When he had a heart of gold under the playboy facade. When he cared.
Maybe that guy is still there, deep down. Or at least he can fake it for long enough to secure this deal for us.
That's why I'm here; the six-figure contract. The stepping stone. The contract.
I remind myself again and again, but my body still doesn't get the message. The butterflies in my stomach go haywire. They're not nervous about convincing anyone we're in love.
They want to kiss Damon. Period. The end.
I need to find some sense. Somewhere. "We can't watch The Matrix without Daphne." See. There's the reason why we can't kiss for real. Because he's my best friend's older brother. Because it would make things weird between us, and she's the only person who's always been there for me.
He smiles, that old version of Damon, the one who charmed to delight rather than dick-around. "Right. You wouldn't want to watch it twice in a row."
"You're just jealous we don't always invite you."
He sinks into the familiar banter. "Yeah, I'd hate to miss hearing Morpheus lecture Neo about reality for the eight-millionth time." He smiles, pure Webb charm.
Fake or real, I don't know. Maybe he's already sinking into his role as my arm candy slash songwriting partner.
Maybe we're trading frenemy barbs.
Maybe he wants to have his way with me on the couch while we watch The Matrix trilogy.
It doesn't matter, really, as long as I know where we stand. Fake lovers, real creative partners.
I try on my role as his fictional girlfriend. I don't have to act any differently than I used to. I can tease him. I can hate him and want him. "Sure, you might not hate missing that, but we both know you taped Agent Smith's monologue about humans to your wall in high school."
He laughs. "I wrote it on the wall in sharpie."
My heart thuds against my chest. He has such a nice laugh. I want to hear it again. I want to hear it forever. I want to sit here and make him smile all day.
It's annoying, but it's useful, I guess.
"Oh, yes, that's so different," I say.
"Huge difference," he agrees.
My lips curl into a smile. The memory of Damon complaining about our movie marathons is fun. The thought of him reciting Agent Smith's monologue is even better. Of course, he'd latch on to the misanthropic rant about humanity's ills. It's such a high school thing to do. It's such a Damon Webb thing to do. "Is it still there?"
"Behind the bookshelf." He nods.
A million memories fill my mind. The Damon I used to know. The one who filled my days with promise. That's the guy I need to see him as now. A guy who fills my days with all sorts of beautiful things. "I want to see it after this."
"You just want an excuse to get in my bedroom."
"Really? I need an excuse?" My voice drops to something past flirty, something seductive. It's completely involuntary. As is the desire racing through my body. I want him. I really do. But I can work with that. I should want my fake boyfriend.
"No." He stares into my eyes with all that Damon Webb charm. "You have an open invitation." His voice is seductive too.
I tell myself it's part of our act, but my blush spreads to my chest anyway. My body surges with electricity. Then he turns so his leg brushes mine, and I'm on fire.
I want to touch him, kiss him, taste him. But this is pretend. It's our first pretend kiss.
I need to get a fucking grip.
I look into his deep blue eyes. I bring my hand to his cheek. I lean closer.
And then I dissolve into the feeling of my lips against his.
A soft kiss. The sort of kiss people use to say I love you. It's too much, too intimate, too close.
My desire to connect with him is overwhelming. I want to kiss him all night. I want to mount him. And I want to whisper secrets in his ear.
