Page 40 of The Match Faker
The argumentative side of me that only seems to come out around Nick wants to point out that growing up with NHL players and Hollywood actors as his seasonal neighbors could not possibly be as terrible as he’s implying, but “money doesn’t buy happiness” is a cliché for a reason.
“Shall we?” he asks, his voice like a sigh.
I flip the visor down and pull out my travel makeup bag. Using the visor’s mirror, I touch up my lips and smooth down my hair. “You said the candle for the hostess gift, right?”
He’s already gotten out of the car, his legs and torso all I can see. As he stretches, the black elastic waistband of his CK underwear peeks out from his jeans.
I can’t help but peruse the peek of soft skin of his stomach and follow the dark hair that disappears beneath his clothes.
“Hey.” He leans back into the car. “My eyes are up here, Jazz.”
“I…no….” I splutter, my cheeks heating. I do not care about Nick’s underwear. Of all the underwear in the world, his is the least concerning to my life. Fake girlfriends don’t imagine what’s beneath their fake boyfriend’s undergarments. They don’t wonder what his skin might taste like. Whether he’d laugh if she trailed her tongue along the path his hair takes.
He chuckles. Ass.
“Yeah. The candle.”
The hostess gift. Right. Okay. Closing my eyes, I take in a long, centering breath, getting my mind and body under control.
He gives me more time to gather myself, or maybe he’s trying to tease me, as he stretches again. I pull out the tart and pull the plastic wrap off for maximum effect at presentation. Thankfully, it traveled well. It only takes a moment to settle the candle into the brown paper gift bag I brought for the occasion and tie a twine bow. I really did overpack, though I’ll never admit that to Nick, so I shove everything I don’t need into the footwell. I’ll come back for the rest later.
Every other vehicle in the circular driveway shines. They’re all SUVs, making Nick’s dingy boat of a Buick look ancient by comparison, but the velvety soft upholstery in Nick’s car, the tinny, faraway quality to the voices that came from the radio when he checked the weather, the smell, like Nick and leather cleaner, all of it combines to make me irrationally protective of his self-proclaimed shitbox. I wipe at a spot of dirt on the door handle as if the car is somehow sentient and concerned with its appearance as much as I would be.
“I’m sorry for earlier,” he says quickly, his voice a little too loud in the quiet afternoon.
“For what?”
He grabs our bags from the trunk and closes the lid with a thud. “I was short with you,” he says, his dark eyes apologetic. “Terse. I don’t know. I’m just nervous, and I took it out on you.”
Heart thumping against my breastbone, I examine the perfect feathering on my tart. It’s in the top three of the best baked goods I’ve ever made. I’ve always preferred fabrics to food when it comes to creating. Probably because fabric lasts, while even the most beautiful tarts have to be consumed eventually.
“What are you thinking?” he asks in almost a whisper. He isn’t wearing his coat and goose bumps cover his bare arms, while his knuckles, nose, and ears are pink.
“That I wish I didn’t have to eat this tart,” I say. “And you don’t have to apologize.” No matter how hard I try, I can’t seemto get him out of my system. Maybe I should just let myself be consumed.
Or as Jade puts it, get dicked down.
He steps closer, his lips twisting. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Nicky, put on a coat,” a woman calls from behind us.
Nicky?I mouth, elation instantly coursing through me.
Fuck off, he mouths back, then he lifts his chin and, over my shoulder, he calls, “Hey, Ma.”
Ma.His mother. This is it. It’s happening. There’s no turning back now. I plaster a smile on my face, then spin to greet her.
Wrapped in an overly large Mr. Rogers-style cardigan and men’s work boots, Mrs. Scott clomps across the driveway. “Let me see you,” she says, her voice high and excited. “I can’t believe he’s kept you from us.”
“Hello, Mrs. Scott.” It takes effort to keep my voice steady. “Thank you so much for inviting me to your home. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
My hostess gifts aren’t just good manners, they serve as a barrier between me and strangers looking for hugs and handshakes. Except apparently, they don’t deter Mrs. Scott.
“Call me Mindy.” She cups my face in her hands, undaunted by the tart and bag between us or the blush heating my skin. “Look at you. Nicky, look at her, isn’t she beautiful?”
She stares pointedly over my shoulder until Nick sighs and says, infinitely softer than I thought possible, “She’s beautiful.”
My heart pangs at the words, but I swallow back the reaction. What else would he say in response to that question?