Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,25

make sure you’re not cheating.”

Everyone obeys, placing their phones out in full view.

“Okay, first question: The small town of Valentine with a population of approximately twenty-eight hundred people is located in which state?” the bartender bellows.

Participants scribble answers on their white boards. Tate gives me an unsure look.

“Seriously? Come on.” I snatch the marker from him.

I write Nebraska on our whiteboard. When we hold it up, we’re one of the few who correctly guessed it.

“Nice work,” Tate says.

Bartender Cupid continues. “Next question: What country is home to the Valentine Falls waterfall in Kosciuszko National Park?”

I shrug, taking another gulp of my drink. “No idea.”

Tate scribbles Australia. Point for us. “I guess when we put our heads together, we’re halfway decent at geography,” he whispers to me. I can’t help but chuckle.

“You guys are killing it!” bartender Cupid shouts at us. “In what city did the infamous Valentine’s Day Massacre happen?”

“New York?” Tate mouths to me. My eyes fix on his lips. Are they always this pink and plump? I shake my head and write Chicago.

“That one was easy,” I say, looking around the room. “Almost everyone got it right.”

“According to a recent survey, what is the most popular gift given to women on Valentine’s Day?”

I whisper, “Jewelry,” at the same moment Tate whispers, “Flowers.” I stifle back a laugh. This is more fun than I thought it would be. We agree to toss out both our guesses and write down “chocolate” instead.

“Oh, come on, you guys were doing so well!” Bartender Cupid frowns at us. “It’s jewelry.”

I elbow Tate. His flesh is hard, solid. I swallow. “Told you. Get it together.” It comes off more playful than I intended.

He raises an eyebrow at me, and it sends a foreign tingle through my stomach.

“Admit it. You’re having a good time,” he says.

I don’t answer. Instead I take a sip and silently admit to myself that he’s right.

His phone dings with a text message, and he leans over to check it, dropping the eraser on the floor. I bend down to pick it up and notice my name in the message above what he’s typing. My eyes wander, skimming the text. I freeze as the words register in my brain.

I can’t handle this. It’s worse than I thought. She is . . . fucking hell, I don’t even know.

Heat rises to my face. I can’t decide if I’m more angry or humiliated. Serves me right. The moment I go against my better judgment and let my guard down around Tate, he reminds me exactly why I shouldn’t.

His negative feelings toward me are no surprise. What I don’t understand is why he forced me to stay for this pointless game if he planned to make fun of me behind my back. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from shouting at him. Or maybe I’m on the verge of tears. I’m too caught off guard to know for sure which way I’ll fall.

I slam the marker on top of the board and glower at him. “Screw you. I’m done.”

“What?” he says. I’ve never seen a more convincing look of feigned confusion in my life.

Jumping off the stool, I weave through the maze of sweaty bodies crowding the bar. I register Tate’s voice calling after me, then I hear the bartender.

“Hey, wait! I was only kidding! You two can still make a comeback!” bartender Cupid shouts. The last of his words are swallowed into the background noise of the bar as the door closes behind me.

Before I can stomp to my car, a hand grips my arm. I shove it away.

Tate holds his hands up in front of him. “Hey. Stop. Why did you leave?”

“You’re a dick, you know that?” The words come out in a controlled hiss.

His brow furrows, the lines in his forehead deeper than I’ve ever seen. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw your text. I saw what you wrote about me. ‘I can’t handle this’? ‘It’s worse than I thought’? ‘She is . . . fucking hell, I don’t even know’? What the hell is your problem?” I’m able to keep a reasonable volume, but my voice shakes with fury. Any moment it could switch to tears.

What little color his face retains drains completely. His eyes widen, then drop to the ground. He’s the definition of utterly dejected. I’ve never seen him react this way.

“You saw that?”

I nod slowly.

“You weren’t supposed to.”

“Of course not. Shit-talking normally occurs behind someone’s back. That’s what you were doing, right?”

“Listen. It’s not