Page 35 of The Match Faker
In all fairness, that could be a lie. I bought the car off Ed years ago, but don’t have a place to park it at the bar. He lets me keep it in his driveway, and that means I don’t use it very much. Great for saving on gas, terrible for preparing for a long drive in the dead of winter with a car as old as I am.
Carefully, she folds her coat and places it on top of mine. I turn away to hide my scowl. She looks lovely. Her long cardigan is the structured kind that looks businesslike but up close is mega soft. Her white turtleneck stretches over her breasts andher pants are black and slim and show a peek of her ankles between the hem and her heeled boots.
I never knew I was an ankle guy until I realized Jasmine had a pair.
Her cheeks and nose are pink from the cold, and when she adjusts her emerald ear warmers, it reveals a pair of pearl earrings. Her red hair is collected in a bun at the top of her head, the color as shocking as it is every time I’m in her presence. Maybe it strikes me that way because it’s winter, and it gets dark so early, and everything is dull and gray. Hopefully, it’s that and not something else, something stupid like the attraction I’m supposed to be suppressing.
“Is there any chance we could stop somewhere soon?” she asks as we slip into our seats.
I twist around, the seat beneath me creaking, and assess her. “We haven’t even left yet.” The words come out more harshly than I mean, so I clamp my lips shut to ensure I don’t accidentally snap at her.
She fidgets with her fingers, not quite meeting my eyes. “I know, but…”
Ah. “Here.” I unclip a set of keys from my ring and hand them to her. “You can use Ed’s bathroom.”
“I’ll be quick.” Keeping her gaze down, she snatches the keys. Then she’s hurrying up Ed’s porch steps. “He’s not home, is he?” she asks, spinning at the top, a look of sheer panic on her face.
I shake my head as I get in an arm workout cranking the window open. “No,” I shout. He’s with Rocco at a doctor’s appointment. “But he wouldn’t stand on the other side of the door listening to your stream if he was.”
She makes a strangled, annoyed sound, then whips around and unlocks the door with jerky movements and slams it behind her.
I settle in the driver’s seat again and start the car to let it heat up. Once I’ve fiddled with the heat settings, I press my forehead against the steering wheel and close my eyes. This was a mistake, this lie. This lie on top of another lie, on top of more lies. Every time I think I’m going to come clean, all I can picture is the devastated looks on my friends’ faces when I tell them I can’t save Moonbar.
Does she have to be so goddamn pretty, though? And nervous. She’s clearly very anxious, and of course she is. Jasmine is aseriouswoman who takes thingsseriously.So, when someone asks her to pretend to be their girlfriend for a weekend, she fuckingdoesit.
Finally, hot air pumps from my car’s vents. I’m in the perfect spot in Ed’s driveway for the midday sun to slice right through the windshield and warm the polyester upholstery. While I wait, I let the inexplicable smell of leather cleaner that I can’t get rid of, despite multiple air fresheners, wash over me.
I take out my phone and flip to the playlist I made for this ride, songs I love and songs I hope she’ll like too. A belt in the motor squeals even though the car hasn’t moved, so that’s pretty ominous for the journey ahead.
When the front door of Ed’s house opens, I pretend to adjust my mirrors while I watch her lock up before stepping carefully down the stairs. When she settles into the passenger seat, her back is so straight it has to be uncomfortable. She adjusts two of her bags, ones she insisted had to stay with her in the car, searching for nonexistent foot room.
“What’s that?” I nod at the insulated bag.
She pulls it to her lap and unzips it, frowning into its depths. “I made snacks for the trip so we wouldn’t have to spend too much money at the rest stops.”
“Jasmine.” Her name is a frustrated sigh. “I’m happy to buy you lunch.”
She shrugs. “Now you don’t have to. Also, I made a Bakewell tart for your mother for a hostess gift.” She holds up a pie-shaped good with white and pink feathering drawn perfectly across the top.
“You made that?” I say, the question more skeptical than shocked.
“Yes,” she says, pulling it to her chest with a scowl. “Also...” She puts the tart away and gathers the other large canvas bag on her lap. “Do you think she’d prefer a scented candle or a succulent?”
She pulls both from the bag and shoves them at me. The candle smells divine, like her home. Instantly, blood rushes to my dick, my knees ache, and my mouth waters like I am in her kitchen again, on my knees for her.
“The candle.” My voice is gravel. I turn away, put the car into drive, inhale the synthetic scent of my pine air freshener. “You didn’t have to bring anything.” I slow-roll out of Ed’s driveway, creep down the middle of the narrow road lined with dirty snowbanks. Gritting my teeth, I silently curse myself. Her thoughtfulness is another reminder of how little I deserve this kindness from her.
Jasmine has no clue how very much my mother will appreciate the gesture or how much it will please my father to see my mother happy.
“Of course I did,” she says, packing things away. “Although, I wasn’t sure if you had any allergies. Which is why I made…” Turning awkwardly in her seat, she sets the food bag on the floorboard behind us. Then she lugs a binder out of the canvas bag that I’m beginning to think has Mary Poppins powers. The sucker is at least six inches thick and lands with athwackon her thighs. “We need to know the things that boyfriends and girlfriends would know about each other. Like allergies.”
“What the fuck is that?” Again, my voice is sharper than is warranted. It’s not her fault I’m a faker to the power of two.
Before I merge onto the highway, I sneak a peek at the binder. There are color-coordinated tabs. Holy shit. Why do I find this so hot?
“It’s our relationship. We can study it on the way up.”
The car is too warm, and now with her in it, too small. I thought the hardest part of this drive would be the constant gnawing guilt; and that is really hard, but honestly, I deserve it.