Page 13 of The Fake WIfe Playbook

God, those eyes. Dark, sharp, and smoky, with that little flash of mischief like she already knows exactly how this is gonna go—and she’s daring me to play catch-up.

She’s the only woman who hasn’t given me more than a glance. I’m not even sure what I’ll say to her. But I’m already smiling, and know I’ll come up with something.

I step into her space, my heart beats like I’m still in overtime, and I say, “Hi. I think we just won the same game.”

She turns, and for the first time, our eyes lock. She looks at me, really taking me in, and I hear her inhale.

Her eyes are sharp, her lips are perfectly curved, and her posture? Well, she’s not intimidated by me. She has her chest puffed out like she owns the whole damn place — not just the room, the city. And when she doesn’t look away, and doesn’t back down? I know I’m in trouble.

Good trouble. The kind of trouble many men would pay good money for.

She cocks her head, just a little, just enough to let me know she’s heard better... But she’s not walking away.

Then she hits me with: “You sure? ‘Cause I don’t remember inviting you to play.”

It’s not cold — it’s playful, flirty, dangerous. The kind of line that could slice you open or pull you closer, depending on your next move.

I grin. She smirks like she knew I would.

And before I can overthink it, her hand finds mine, and she tugs me toward the dance floor likeshemade the decision. Likesheowns the night.

And I’m in. I’d follow her anywhere.

She dances like sheknowsI’m watching her every move and dares me to keep up.

I do.

We move into the music — bass heavy, lights flashing, bodies packed tight — and suddenly it’s just us. Her hips fit against mine like we’ve done this before, we’re so close there’s no light between us.

She’s fast, smooth, and unbothered by the chaos around us. For the first time all night, the Cup doesn’t matter. The noise, the cameras, the win — they all fade. It’s just her, fire, and rhythm, laughing when I try to mimic her moves and fail spectacularly.

Eventually, she pulls me by the shirt, weaving through the crowd, and leads me to the bar like she’s known me for years.

We do shots. How many is anyone’s guess.

There are no cheers and no speeches. It’s just the two of us, ordinary people clicking glasses and downing tequila like no tomorrow.

She is watching me over the rim like she already knew the ending to this story.

Shot one burns. Shot two goes down too easily.

She licks salt off her wrist. I might actually die watching her do it. And my cock grows hard imagining what else her lips could be doing right now.

“Still sure we’re on the same team?” I ask, voice lower now.

She smirks, leans closer, and whispers: “I think you’re trying out for mine.”

And right then — somewhere between the tequila, the heat, and the way she’s looking at me — I know one thing.

I’malready in.

She blinks her lashes, and my cock stiffens. She’s gorgeous.

“Are you lost, or are you following me? She teases, voice low and amused, like she just pulled my name from a winning hand.

“I’d follow you anywhere,” I say, before I think better of it.

She lets out a lowoofpretending not to watch—but definitely watching.