Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,29

a tissue and wipe clean the black smudges under my eyes, then adjust my shirt to a more respectable position. My lips and cheeks will have to calm down by themselves.

When I reach for the door, Jamie pops out, almost running into me.

“There you are,” he says. “I know you said to wait in there, but it was getting a bit loud and crazy. Can you believe they’re doing a Valentine’s Day contest? It’s August.”

I attempt a chuckle in return, but it sounds like I’m being strangled. I clear my throat. “Sorry for making you wait. I was just getting some air.”

I grip my purse in one hand, then the other. Then I jerk the strap all the way up my arm. This is some suspicious fidgeting I’m showcasing. I try to focus on Jamie’s face. His kind caramel eyes are an anchor for my wayward emotions. They center me for a half second.

“No worries at all. Feel like going somewhere quieter? Maybe the tavern across the street so we don’t have to drive?”

I nod and scurry across the parking lot to the sidewalk, half listening as he chatters about the importance of walking ten thousand steps a day.

“You okay? You look a little flushed.”

“No. Yeah. Yeah, no, I mean, I’m fine. Just hot is all.” I shake my head, hoping I can disorient myself into forgetting the impossible kiss in Tate’s car just minutes ago.

“You look beautiful, by the way.”

My mouth freezes in an “O” shape while I breathe. “Oh. Thanks.” If only he knew what a tangled mess I am inside.

He raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like you could use some convincing.”

“I’m sweating like a pig. I don’t feel very beautiful right now.” I wonder if Tate thinks I’m beautiful. Is that why he kissed me? I bite the inside of my cheek. Don’t think about him. Focus on Jamie.

He tucks a chunk of my hair behind my ear. “Stop. You’re beautiful.”

He takes my hand and leads me to the crosswalk. A car idles next to us while we wait for the light to change. It’s dark gray, four doors, with a dent in the hood. I let go of Jamie’s hand when I spot the reflection of Tate’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Two full seconds of blue-gray sky until he blinks, then speeds away.

eight

Monday morning arrives after an entire weekend spent replaying the kiss with Tate. I couldn’t focus at the tavern when Jamie chatted about his upcoming camping trip. Something about hiking in the Rockies or the Andes. Even drinking a Scotch and water couldn’t settle me. After slurping it down, I bade him farewell with a hug and chaste kiss on the cheek. If only he knew where my lips had been.

Staring at my computer screen, I run my tongue along my bottom lip. I swear I taste Tate’s clean flavor. All weekend I was a ball of stress thinking about him, our kiss, and what the hell I’m going to do about it all. How embarrassing that a single make-out session has derailed me so thoroughly. I blame the best kiss I’ve ever had, and the ache it caused between my legs. The sensations linger over me like fog.

Footsteps echoing through the hallway snap me out of my haze. Tate settles in his office, logs on to his computer, and stares ahead. A full minute passes. With each second that ticks by, my shoulder muscles tense. My fingers are useless. I can’t type my name, let alone full sentences in this awkward loaded silence.

I guess it’s up to me to break it. I walk to his desk. “Hey,” I finally say.

“Hey, yourself,” he answers in an identical tone.

After plopping in the corner chair, I gaze over at him and nearly gasp. His expression is completely tender. Not a smidge of anger or irritation can be detected anywhere. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him sport such a nonthreatening expression at work. Small bags sit under his eyes. I wonder if he had trouble sleeping this weekend like I did.

“About Friday night,” we both say at the same time. I smile; he purses his lips. Typical.

I clear my throat. He rests his palms on the tops of his thighs. I make a mental note of how much more handsome he is when he’s not actively scowling. The gentle shading of silvery-blond stubble along his jawline does me in.

“So . . . we kissed,” I stammer.

“We did indeed.” His tone is one of casual observation. He