Page 63 of The Match Faker
“Why are you sulking?” She perches on the back of the chair, back straight, neck long. The glow from the outdoor lights softens the severity her tight bun and the sharp lines of her dress give her.
“I’m getting some air.”
“It’s like forty degrees in here.”
“But there’sair.”
She rolls her eyes.
“What do you want?”
She fidgets, smoothing already smooth fabric and flattening already flattened hair.
“Jazz.”
She huffs. “Come upstairs with me,” she says, attention averted.
“To do what?”
Another burst of sudden laughter reaches us. She watches me, lips pressed together, until it fades, as if I wouldn’t be able to hear her otherwise. “Come with me and I’ll tell you.”
I huff a breath. Fuck. I am not in the mood for this. “Jasmine, tell me why now or I’ll never leave this lounger.”
“Nick,” she says, stern.
“Tell me or I’ll throw up.”
“You’re acting like a child.”
“Tell me or?—”
She covers my mouth with her hand. “Stop. And don’t lick me, either.”
She’s lucky she’s fast, because I was about to. When she removes her hand, she wipes her palm on my suit jacket hanging off the back of the lounger anyway.
“I’ve been considering what you said earlier and…” She sighs. “You’re right.”
Channeling my best Judd Nelson, I throw my fist into the air. She pulls it back down but rests my hand in her lap and holds tight with both of hers.
“It’s not fair that I get to lie but you don’t, or that I asked you to lie for me but then I’m upset about it. It’s hypocritical.”
She opens my fist, spreads my fingers out on her lap, tracing the outline with her index finger; goose bumps follow.
“I stayed because fairness is important to me. You helped me so it’s fair that I should stay and help you, and honestly, the reason you need me is a lot more noble than the reason I needed you.”
“We don’t need to compare?—”
She shushes me, though one side of her mouth tips up in a hint of a smile. I make a claw with my hand and squeeze her leg right above her knee, making her squeal.
“Anyway,” she says after we catch ourselves staring goofily at each other. “You won’t be my verbal punching bag anymore.” Her voice is soft.
Creepy Crawly still chugs along the pool floor. Large windows line two walls of the room, but with the lights off, it’s secluded, almost secret.
“Wait.” I sit up. “Why did you need me to go back to our room for that?”
She ignores or doesn’t notice my use of “our,” so I ignore it, too.
She huffs again, frustrated.