Faking It

by K. Bromberg

  “It’s not like I would have made fun of you.”

  He chuckles softly. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to be the guy and want to protect you if anything goes wrong? To be the strong one who’ll reach out and grab you if you slip off the rope and fall only to know I’d never be able to do that because I’m petrified of falling myself?”

  “You’d have reacted.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I just know. You take chances and risks and you’d do it without thinking.”

  He glances over at me, holds my eyes for a beat, a pool of emotions swimming through his emerald eyes I can’t decipher. “Thank you for helping me across . . . and distracting me.” A shy smile graces those lips, making my stomach flip before he turns back to the balloons.

  We spend the next few moments pointing to the designs. Picking a favorite one. Pretending there is a race between them all and both of us choosing the one we think would win. Our laughter echoes around us, and at some point, I shift to study him. The lines of his profile. The scruff dusting his jawline. The baseball cap pulled down low on his forehead.

  “What are you staring at?” Zane asks, his lips spreading into a smile, but he doesn’t glance my way.

  “I’m just trying to figure you out is all.”

  “Many people have tried. Few have succeeded.”

  “I doubt few have lived with you for almost a month either.”

  “True.” He nods his head slowly and brings his cup of coffee up to his lips. “No one has.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Thanks for elaborating,” I say through a laugh.

  He shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I could give you the canned response that people expect. The, I haven’t found the right woman yet. The, I work too much and that’s not fair to the other person . . . but neither are true.”

  “Okay.” I chew on the word, not completely understanding what he means.

  “Maybe I don’t know what I want. Maybe I do work too much and living with someone means I’m giving them false hope about the man I might be able to be some day when I’m not quite there just yet. Maybe I’m not meant for marriage—God knows I had a crappy example of what one was growing up—and so I don’t want to give anyone false hope.”

  “And maybe you just enjoy women,” I say with a lift of my eyebrows as I try to process all of this honesty from him.

  “That, I do. Yes.” He looks at me, head angled to the side, soft smile on his lips. “Is it so bad that I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up?”

  His question gives me pause for a moment to make sure he’s being truthful. There’s a sincerity in his eyes that startles me. “No. Not at all. But it surprises me you’d say that. You’re obviously successful. It seems like you have a million irons in the fire.”

  “What about you? Why don’t you have a boyfriend or husband? What do you want to be when you grow-up?” He reaches out and tucks a stray stand of hair that fell out of my ponytail behind my ear. For the briefest of moments, his thumb rests on the side of my cheek when he does so.

  I fight the urge to turn my cheek into his hand—silly girl—and instead make myself concentrate on answering his question.

  “When I grew up, I wanted to be a veterinarian. Or rather I think my line of succession as a kid was a princess—pink frilly gown and a diamond tiara were required—”

  “Aren’t they always?”

  “And then an astronaut only because I thought aliens would have purple skin and I loved the color purple.”

  “What happened to pink?”

  “By the time I was into purple, I was long over pink.” I laugh. “Then I think I wanted to be a mommy.”

  “Still very plausible.”

  “In time.” I nod and smile. “And next was wanting to be the next Jane Goodall. The lady who studies chimpanzees in the forests of Africa.”

  “Loves animals and travel. Check.”

  “Then I decided I wanted to be a king. I was sick of being bossed around. Forget the helpless princess thing.”

  “Let me guess, you were sick of waiting for your prince to come?”

  I snort. “More like I was sick of being told I needed a prince. My mom . . . she’s a hopeless romantic.”

  “And you have something against romance, I take it?”

  “No. Yes.” I shrug and laugh softly. “I don’t know.”

  “What? Tell me?”

  “Even after my dad left when I was little, she still believed in the fairytale. In the notion that there’s a prince out there for everyone. In the idea that love conquers all. It always confused me since I’d seen her get hurt time and again. Why believe so much in something when it continually brings you misery?”

  “I suppose it’s different for everyone.”

  “Yeah, well, after seeing it a few times I decided I was going to control my own fairytale—”

  “Be the king?”

  “Yep. I wanted to be the one who could make all the decisions when it came to my life, not leave my happiness up to someone else.”

  “Hence where you get your zeal to tell it like it is.” He pats his hand over his heart and this time when he puts it down—the smile broad on his face—he places it ever so casually atop my knee.

  “Off with their heads,” I say in my best British accent.

  “Careful there, Cinder . . . I come from a place that was once a colony of your kingdom, my liege.” He squeezes my leg. “What else did that creative mind of yours want to be?”

  I fall silent and look back to the skyline. “I had a modeling scout approach me at a mall. Tell me I should do headshots. My mom thought it was a scam but I begged her to let me do it. I got my first job a few weeks later. It was a runway show—small time stuff—but there was something about the feel of it that just . . . I don’t know . . . ” I shrug, feeling silly and strangely vulnerable.

  “You don’t know what?”

  “It’s silly really.”

  He knocks his knee against mine. “Tell me.”

  “It made me feel loved.” I clear my throat, hating that I suddenly feel exposed. “I know it was the clothes I was wearing that people were applauding, but for this girl who no one took notice of . . . who’s dad didn’t think she was important enough to stay around and watch grow . . . it just, it made me feel like I was worth something. And yes”—I hold up my hand to stop him from speaking—“before you say you shouldn’t find your self-worth in others’ opinions of you, I know that. Back then though, that modeling job was the start of me getting my feet under me. It was the moment where I could have stayed where I was, who I was, or I could be the person I wanted to be.”

  “All I was going to say was that I get it,” he murmurs. “I understand. My family . . . Christ, my family was a hot mess. Sure my parents were together forever, but when you live under the drunken haze of alcohol, it makes everything more tolerable . . . for everyone except the people who live with you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. They preferred their vodka over their son and god forbid if he came in between the two.” My heart lurches in my chest for the little boy who grew up in that situation.

  “Is that why you came to America?”

  “One night . . . shit, one night, when I was fifteen, my dad raised his usual hand to me and for the first time, I fought back. Things changed after that. Their fighting grew worse, their drinking became heavier . . . and I couldn’t do anything right anymore.”

  “Zane . . .”

  He rocks his head from side to side as if he’s remembering and measuring how much to tell me. “The day after my eighteenth birthday, I made my move. I stole a necklace from my mom and hawked it to pay for my plane fare here. Not proud of it, but sometimes you do what you have to do.” He purses his lips for a moment, almost as if he’s weighing what to say next. “When I made my first big trade on the stock market—when I got that same feeling of worth that you were talking about
on your first modeling job—I sent her a check for the necklace and then about fifty more of them. That was my thank you for bringing me into this world . . . and then my affirmation that I never wanted to be like either of them.”

  “Do you think you’ve achieved that?” He flashes his eyes my way, surprised by my question. “I mean, have you made that distinction in your head that you’re different than them?”

  “I think I’ll always be chasing that distinction,” he murmurs and then clears his throat, the reflective look in his eyes gone. A topic a little too close for a man used to being closed off from the world.

  And before I know it, he’s effortlessly shifted us onto the grass behind us where his lips find mine.

  The kiss knocks me astride for a second.

  We’re not in public. There is no one to document the relationship between SoulM8’s owner and his match.

  We’re not in the coach. There is no, “this is just casual sex with nothing else.”

  This is Zane and I on a hill with hot air balloons above us and no one around for miles.

  I sink into the kiss. Into the lack of pretense with it. Into enjoying the warmth and softness of his tongue and the strength in his hand that’s cradling my head.

  “What are we—”

  “Shh. We’re watching balloons,” he chuckles, preventing me from being stupid and stopping him from kissing me.

  Because this feels so good. He feels so good. So incredible that I need to shut my mind off and just let his lips and tongue and the heat he’s spreading throughout my body be the only thing I’m thinking about.

  “What other things did you dream of being?” he murmurs against my lips when the kiss ends.

  “I’m still dreaming,” I say when I open my eyes to find him on his elbow looking down at me and his hand resting on my stomach.

  “And men? Do men factor into this dreaming?”

  I laugh. “That’s a pretty broad statement.”

  “Do they?”

  I swallow over the lump lodged in my throat and try to ignore the sudden acceleration of my pulse. Zane doesn’t like dating or long term or . . . he just said all of that in so many terms, so why is my heart beating like I want him to want me?

  Keep it light, Low.

  “I have horrible taste in men.”

  “Should I be offended?” he laughs.

  “That’s not what I mean,” I say and then realize it is what I mean. “Let me preface that by saying it is what I mean.” A nervous laugh on my part. A shift of my eyes back to the balloons still dotting the sky.

  “So I take it you haven’t found your Prince Charming yet?” His smile curls up one corner of his lips.

  “My mom thinks every man has a little of both in them.”

  “And you? What do you think?”

  “I think I pick the men who look good, who have some swagger, but in the end love themselves more than they’ll ever let themselves love someone else. Even with my mom’s mistakes to watch, I still fall for them. Hard. And by the time I realize it’s too late to get my heart back unscathed, they leave and it’s broken.”

  “Fucking love,” he says and laughs.

  “Doesn’t everything come back to it at one point or another?” I ask.

  “You don’t know the half of it.” He half laughs, half sighs.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?

  Zane looks at me for a moment, his eyes narrowed and his lips twisted as if he wants to say more, but then shakes his head. “Just a guy comment.” He shrugs and then presses a chaste kiss to my lips. “Should we head back?”

  “Do we have to?” I laugh. “It’s so peaceful up here. No cell phones. No bus. No—”

  “No Robert.”

  “No Robert.” I chuckle. “I’m afraid to see what is in store for us at our next destination.”

  “Don’t remind me,” he groans, standing up and pulling me up to my feet by my hands.

  “Always an adventure.”

  He links his fingers with mine and swings them. “Always.”

  We hike back down the trail, talking the whole time about this or that—simple things we’ve never really discussed despite the fact that we’re living together. The whole time though, I keep thinking how I’ve had a smile on my face this entire time. How this one little unexpected jaunt made me realize that sometimes first impressions deserve a second look.

  Especially when it comes to Zane.

  “THAT WASN’T SO BAD.”

  Zane looks up at me from where he stands. He has flour dusted on one cheek, his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and he’s licking frosting from the bowl with his other.

  “Not bad no. Baking together I can get behind.”

  “You just like the eating after part.”

  “Who wouldn’t?” he laughs and takes another lick. “Plus, you in heels and an apron looking all domestic was—”

  “Equivalent to you looking all domestic.” I quirk an eyebrow.

  He laughs. “I swore there was going to be a catch to it. Like weird ingredients or no recipes or something to challenge us.”

  “Cooking blindfolded.”

  He laughs. “That or cooking naked.” He quirks a brow and that slow slide of a smile on his lips and the dip of his eyes down my body and back up says exactly what he’s thinking of.

  “There’s always that, but then I think of accidental burns on places that don’t need to be burned.”

  Zane hisses and then laughs. “It sounds sexier than it would be. Let’s be grateful that wasn’t our challenge today.”

  “Thank God, no.” But there was warm breath on the back of my neck. Soft kisses on my bare shoulder. Low groans when I’d bend over to check on the cupcakes in the oven.

  All the things I’ve been trying to remind myself on a daily—no hourly—basis that are part of the gig. Act like a couple when you’re not a couple. And yet, I couldn’t prevent my mind from going there. From wondering if this is how it would be if Zane ever decided there could be more after this whole tour was over.

  More?

  Oh, Low. You’re losing the battle aren’t you?

  This is not supposed to be happening.

  “It may have been an easy day, but mixed with the seven other adventures we’ve taken this week, I’m fucking exhausted.” He leans his hips against the counter, and I love that he holds the bowl against his stomach as he takes another unabashed lick just like a little boy would.

  There’s something extremely sexy about the sight so I stare a little longer than I normally would.

  “Have there really been seven?” I lean back in my chair and yawn as I slip my feet out of my heels and put them up on the table in front of me. Yes, it’s a kitchen area and my feet should be on the floor, but hell if my toes aren’t screaming for some relief.

  “Let’s see, there was the ropes test course.”

  “Who could forget good ‘ol Tucker,” I murmur and know the button I pushed was the right one when his eyes harden and eyebrows raise.

  “Good ‘ol Tuck who was putting me through the ringer so we’d break up from our fake relationship and he could hit on you.”

  “Whatever.” I laugh but love that he was jealous and admitted it.

  “Then there was fishing at the lake.”

  “Ugh. Worms.”

  He laughs and I know he’s thinking of my squeal when he made me put one on the hook all by myself.

  “But you caught a fish.”

  “I did.”

  “And then there was the city’s three-legged sack race.”

  “Longest one in the United States.” I flash a bright smile thinking of the heat, the awkwardness of our legs being tied together, and the frustration every time we’d fall.

  “I’ve got your longest one right here.”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Whatever.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  “None, whatsoever,” I say as he takes another lick of the frosting.

  “Then t
here was the blindfold challenge.”

  “I don’t care what you say, but making me taste Vegemite without giving me a warning it would taste like . . . I don’t know what it tastes like, but I’ll make sure to never eat it again.” I shiver at the thought of being blindfolded and having to taste five things he fed me.

  “Don’t be dissing one of my favs.”

  “Believe me, if I decide to visit down under, it definitely won’t be to eat that crap.” But there’s something about my comment that has him angling his head to the side and just staring.

  “I can think of plenty of other benefits to going down under.” His voice is coy, the lick of his lips suggestive. My body reacts immediately when he puts the bowl down beside him and walks the few feet to where I’m sitting.

  His eyes darken and hold mine as he picks up my aching feet and begins to work his thumb over the arch. I’m more than aware I only recited four of the outings we had but right now all I can focus on is his magic hands. “Oh, god that feels good.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Right there.”

  He continues to rub. I continue to make appreciative noises very similar to keening and moaning.

  “Not that I’m complaining by any means, Cinder, but why do you always insist on wearing heels?”

  “Why not?” A soft smile plays on my lips. “I can either be a high-heel in life or a flip-flop. I choose high heel. Sophisticated and classy. Do they hurt? Yes. Do I look the part I want to be? Always.” He smiles and shakes his head as I let mine fall back on the chair as he continues to rub. “Don’t. Ever. Stop.”

  “I’ll remind you of those three words later.”

  “Mmm,” I murmur as that sweet simmer spreads throughout my body at the promise in his words.

  “I have champagne if you want some.”

  “Champagne?” I ask.

  “To celebrate.”

  Now he has my attention. I lift my head back up to meet his eyes. “Celebrate what?”

  “Well, we’re now more than halfway through this bus tour that I swear will end up being my demise if Robert has his way—”

  “God love him.” I laugh but Zane levels me with a get serious look.

  “And because the subscription numbers have now smashed all predictions. I hate to admit it and I’ll never say it to his face, but Robert was on to something with this showing real life crap. The site’s video section is getting so much traffic it’s ridiculous.”