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“A backstory?”
“How we came together, how we fell in love.”
“Are we in love yet, though? That sounds so serious.”
“Okay, not love yet. Complete and total infatuation,” he concludes, not letting me go at all. Still running his palm up and down my back, like he’s trying to soothe me.
Well, it’s working. My muscles are relaxing and I’m leaning my weight into him, my fingers slightly curled into the fabric of his shirt.
“We already have a backstory,” I remind him. “We met at my party.”
“Right. Well, that was quick.”
“When you know, you just... know.” My father has said that to me before, and I used to think it was utter crap.
I still sort of do. I mean, look at us, with our fake relationship.
“I want everyone to believe I’m completely fucking obsessed with you,” he murmurs, and the tone of his voice, the look on his face...
I believe him, despite the fact that we’re about to sign a ton of legal documents binding us together in a fake relationship.
And that’s slightly terrifying, how convincing he is.
“You think we can get people to believe that we’re the real deal?” My breath hitches when he dips his head, his mouth now right at my ear. I can hear him breathing, the steady in and out, and when he speaks, I can feel his breath. Warm, with a hint of mint.
“We’re going to test it out on your parents first.”
Alarm sweeps through me, and I try to jerk out of his hold, but he doesn’t let me go. “That might not be a good idea.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got. You need to face them eventually, right? What better time than now?”
“Now?” My voice squeaks like I’m a little mouse.
He nods. “Text them. Ask if I can come over for dinner.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah.” He nuzzles the side of my face, and my knees wobble. I think he did that on purpose, to throw me off kilter. “Tonight.”
I try to pull out of his embrace a little slower this time, but he still won’t let me go. “I need to get my phone. It’s in my bag.”
We both swivel our heads to where I left my heart-shaped, hot-pink Chanel bag on a nearby chair. “You should use that purse as much as possible when we’re together. The heart is a nice touch.”
I had the same thought, though it feels a little cheesy and almost sordid, hearing him say it out loud.
Maybe because I’m having some guilt over this fake-relationship thing. Rachel wasn’t wrong when she kept prodding me about what I’m getting out of it. I can’t quite tell her what that is because I don’t even know myself. And when I admit that I just want someone—anyone—paying attention to me, that sounds...
Pathetic.
Tate releases me, and I go to the bag, zipping it open and pulling my phone out. I can barely fit anything in that bag, which is super annoying, but it’s so freaking cute, and it was a birthday gift, so I love it.
I send a quick message to the text group that consists of me and my parents.
Me: Can I have a guest over for dinner tonight?
My father answers almost immediately.
Dad: Who? Rachel? Adore her. She’s always welcome.
