Page 110 of Play Fake

“Okay. Fair.” I smile.

“So?”

“So you just… told me you loved me in one of the hottest ways imaginable. And I love you too. I told you before, but I wasn’t sure if you remembered or not. You were pretty drunk and then I didn’t know if I wanted you to remember—“

“You told me you loved me?”

“Yes, on your birthday.”

“I remember something, but I thought you were just saying things to make me feel better because I was giving you a hard time.”

“No. I’m in love with you, Waylon.”

He turns and looks at me like I’ve just told him it’s Christmas morning.

“Say it again.”

“I’m in love with you?”

“Fuck,” he curses and then his lips are on mine and his hands are all over my body. We’re a ball of limbs and lips and heavy breathing for several minutes until we both remember we’re still sitting in the truck outside the restaurant.

“My place?” I ask.

He nods, and we listen to one of his game day playlists the rest of the way back to the house while my heart pounds with anticipation. Waylon fucking Prescott is in love with me. He wants me, and only me, and I feel like I’ve just won the lottery.

I fumble with my keys at the door, while he presses up against me, dropping kisses up and down my neck that only distract me further from the task at hand. We hurry into the house, kicking off our shoes and dropping my purse on the way, rushing up the stairs, but when we get to my room, he stops short.

He halts on the threshold of the room and takes slow steps in. The night-light I have in the corner is the only thing illuminating the surrounding space.

“Everything okay?” I ask, suddenly unsure as I set the dessert bag on the dresser.

“Yeah. Just feels weird to finally be in here. Feel like I’m breaking the rules by even being upstairs.”

“I can yell at you if it helps.” I tease him, sitting down on the bed while he traipses around the room looking at the photos I have on the wall and studying the books I have stuffed in the bookcase lining one side of the room.

He smiles and runs his fingers over the titles and then walks toward my desk where my playlist is still sitting open. His hand pauses and he flicks his wrist to skim the playlist that’s titled “For Zie”.

“This the album he’s working on then?”

“Yes,” I answer softly, worried we’re going to be headed for real yelling again.

“Which one is about you?”

“Waylon, I don’t think…”

“I’m just curious,” he shrugs, and glances back at me over his shoulder.

I sigh in response.

“Which one?”

“All of them,” I say as quietly as possible.

“All of them?” He asks, his tone incredulous.

I nod.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “He is pretty fucking sorry, huh?”