Page 17 of Play Fake

“I’ll put my phone number in it, so you can text me about it later,” I answer her silent question, and wiggle my fingers.

She hands it to me reluctantly, and I quickly enter the number, sending myself a text from her phone before I give it back so I can know who the text is coming from. I may or may not have a habit of handing out my number to random chicks when I’m drunk, and then never remembering who they are the next day. It’s a good problem to have, but I have no interest in explaining it to her.

The server finally chooses that moment to show up, and we’re all distracted with giving our orders. I hand her phone back afterward and watch out the corner of my eye when she looks down at it. I can see the tiny huff and eye roll when she sees how I’ve listed myself in her phone.

It only takes a moment more before I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket.

Mac Truck:Captain America? Seriously??

I smile at her irritation.

Me:Seemed to make an impression at the time.

Mac Truck:You. You made an impression. Literally.

I cringe as I remember pinning her up against the wall. Playing center has made body slamming someone a natural reflex for me, and half awake, soaked in cold water with someone screaming had led me to my on-field instincts—if someone comes at you, tackle them.

Me:Yeah… sorry about that. Was half awake.

Mac Truck:And half dressed.

Me:That’s the part you remember, huh?

I smirk.

Mac Truck:Kind of hard to forget.

Me:Oh yeah?

Mac Truck:Don’t flatter yourself. It’s like an awful nightmare, not a fond memory.

Me:Just can’t stop thinking about being naked with me, though. Good to know.

Mac Truck:You are incorrigible.

Me:I’m going to assume that means hot as fuck.

Mac Truck:It does not.

She puts her phone down and returns her attention to Liam and Olivia. I steal a glance at her before trying to pretend I’m listening to them, too.

If there’s one thing I know, it’s that I’m a masochist, and going with her tomorrow is a mistake. But I’m going to do it, anyway.

SEVEN

Mackenzie

I was not at allprepared for the man who showed up at my door this evening, and it was why, even now, ten minutes later in his truck on the way to the show, I was still silent. I stared out the passenger window, watching the people duck in and out of shops and bars as we made our way down Broadway. He’d barely spoken himself; the music is on low and the whole cab of the truck smells like him—like soap and his cologne.

“So do we need a backstory here?”

“A backstory?” I ask the glass of the window because I was not going to look at him again.

I’d missed the door when he’d rung it, still gathering up my purse and a jacket from the closet. Wren had let him in on her way out for the evening, and when I’d gotten to the foyer, he was standing there staring down at his phone, looking distracted and more than a little surreal. He wore a dark gunmetal gray Henley partially unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up showing off all the tattoos on his forearms, and a pair of ripped black jeans that hugged his ass and thighs in a way that should have been illegal. Dark boots replaced the sneakers and cowboy boots he usually wore, and a leather cuff circled one wrist. I’d had to bite back a smile at the realization he’d actually made an effort to play the part.

The thing that’d stopped me dead in my tracks was he had his hair down, for the first time I could ever remember. Gorgeous thick blond hair tucked behind one ear, and the shadow of a three-day-old beard made him look like someone else entirely. Someone I would have wanted if he were a stranger in a bar. Someone I might even want now. At least until he’d realized I was in the room, looked up, given me his signature smug smirk and greeted me with a grunted “Mac”. And I remembered why I hated him.

But now in the car, trapped so close to him, knowing we were about to put on an act that we were not mortal enemies but a new couple, I felt like I might want to call the whole thing off altogether.