He sighs, but he’s still smiling. “I’d hate to sleep on the floor, but I will if you want me to, Lola. I’d say the bed is big enough. We can barricade with pillows.”
He’s looking at me differently. And he has been since he was on stage. I’d thought his declaration of love was an act. Fake. Like our first kiss at the taco truck. For press . . . but the way he’s been looking at me . . . I’m not so sure anymore. That’s another reason I kept gulping down the drinks. I was so nervous, I kept slamming them down like shots.
Did he mean it? How could he? We hardly know each other. We’re faking a relationship. It’s all going to plan. Bren seemed happy with him tonight. The hate mail was diverted from him to me, and there have been no more incidents of women trying to break into places for alone time since I’ve been in the picture publicly.
If the plan is going so perfectly, why, then, is this starting to feel anything but fake?
Sharing a bed after his admission of love, whether it was fake or not, sounds like a terrible idea.
Even so, my body gravitates to him. I may not be in love with Karl, but I’m definitely in lust with him. And I like him.
I approach him, intending to embrace him and kiss him, but he stiffens.
“Easy,” he says. More soothingly, he draws his thumb up the length of my cheekbone. “You’ll stay on this side.” He pats the bed. “And I’ll stay on that side.”
Famous last words.
I drop to the bed in the dress and in the makeup, too tired to change or wash my face. And I feel it when he places the pillows between us before he dozes off.
And yet here we are the next morning, the pillows gone, and Karl is wrapped around me.
Wrapped around me in a familiar way that would suggest we wake up together like this all the time. There’s a warmth on my chest and I smile when I realize he’s cupping my left breast. His nose is also nuzzling the side of my neck. Has he been doing this all night?
He’s slept with me once before, on Christmas when I was so lonely. But that was so different.
I try moving, and he stirs. He lets go of my breast and rolls onto his back, still asleep. I sit up, and peer at him. And holy hell, the tent he’s straining on the bedsheet is massive.
Inviting.
I want to reach over to pull him out of his boxers. At least he had the forethought to undress before crashing.
I think about it. Seriously think about it. I imagine peeling the bedsheet off him, sneaking my hand into the opening of the boxers, and freeing him. Asleep, he wouldn’t notice at first, not until my mouth would be around him.
But I don’t.
He’s made it clear he doesn’t want to touch me, and I’ve already pushed myself on him enough. I need to respect his wishes. I remind myself of the night we had. Of the stupid questions that were swimming in my drunken head last night. Of course he doesn’t love me.
This is fake.
30
KARL
The collective chant is deafening around us.
“Five!”
“Four!”
“Three!”
Lola is holding a glass of champagne, and she sets it down. We lock eyes, and I wrap both arms around her waist.
“Two!”
Her gaze drops to my lips, and I smirk.
“One!”