Faking It

by K. Bromberg

  The juxtaposition messes with my head. And heart.

  “That’s why you took Kostas out that night. He was saying things that now make sense but—”

  “I wanted him away from everyone because as much as I love him like a brother, he’s a spoiled rich kid who can’t stand the idea of losing.” He smacks a hand on the glass top when he loses his ball and puts another token in without looking my way. “That and he wanted you.”

  “Oh.” There must be something about the simple sound I make because for the first time since we started this conversation, Zane stops and looks at me.

  “Does my reason for starting the company honestly matter that much to you? It only matters that it’s up and running, that it’s providing people jobs, and that it succeeds in its purpose.”

  “Its purpose which is to help people find love.”

  “Exactly.” He nods and then as if the conversation is over, pulls back the plunger and begins playing again.

  I put my hands on my own pinball machine and go through the motions like I’m going to play but then stop. “So wait, you sell love, but you don’t believe in it? Why in the world would you choose this as your business to challenge your friends’ with?”

  Zane doesn’t respond. He just grimaces and jerks his body this way and that as if his movements are going to influence where the ball rolls. When the ball finally slips through his flippers and the turn ends, he hangs his head back and emits a big sigh of frustration that I’m not letting this go.

  “Because it’s different than what they’re investing in.”

  And the award for vague answers goes to Zane Phillips.

  “What are they investing in?”

  “Stocks. Futures. Medical.”

  “And you opted for SoulM8.”

  He slides a sideways glance my way, telling me he is more than fed up with this conversation.

  “Yes, I chose SoulM8.”

  “But why?”

  “Because money comes and goes, Harlow. Stocks fall. They rise. They fall in and out of favor . . . as do most products. At the end of the day though, it’s love that people come back to time and again.” He looks back down at the machine and launches another ball in the playfield. “It’s the only thing I can think of that hurts people over and over, that will bring them to their knees, and yet just like your mom does, it’s something they’ll still go back to, believe in, and take a chance on.”

  “Everyone that is, except for you.”

  Zane doesn’t respond. He keeps his focus on the machine and his battle to come out on top.

  I hate that his lack of an answer bugs me.

  I despise that it gives me a little ounce of hope that maybe what I’m suddenly and unwantedly feeling for him, he might also feel for me in turn.

  I hate that it proves his theory one hundred percent right.

  Later that night, I can’t sleep. I allowed myself to get lost in the physicality of Zane when we got back to the bus. In the sensations he evoked within me. In the feelings for him I tried to suppress.

  Sure he was as attentive to my needs as usual. Always the right amount of raw demand versus sensual finesse, always the right groans of praise and moans of needs.

  But I hear none of the words I tell myself I don’t need, but still want anyway.

  This is the problem with no-strings-attached sex. When you’re doing it with someone, you do the deed and then leave. You don’t get to know what they’re like without coffee in the morning or that they actually set a timer to brush their teeth for exactly one minute at night before they go to bed. You don’t get to share those knowing glances across a crowded room that speaks a hundred words in a matter of seconds. You don’t get to know them outside of the bedroom—that they love arcades and hot air balloons and are afraid of heights.

  You don’t get to know they really do have a romantic side despite constantly telling you that they’re a hard ass who isn’t interested in love.

  From where I sit on the couch, the lights from headlights dance across the ceiling. I watch them and make a promise to myself to just try and enjoy the next two weeks.

  That’s what I’m here for—work, to gain experience, to make connections, to gain visibility—doing whatever Zane and I are doing here was just an added bonus.

  Just live in the now, Low. Enjoy everything about it.

  And then once you get home, once you step away, you’ll see that these feelings are only because of your close proximity together.

  That’s all.

  SHE’S GORGEOUS.

  That’s my first thought when I turn from the chair at the desk and stare at her asleep in the bed. Her hair, her body, her lips. They call to me. Taunt me. Tempt me.

  I’m so screwed.

  That’s my second thought. And one that is a constant every time I look at her.

  I need to work.

  I always need to work.

  But I don’t move. I don’t turn back around to the facts and figures filling up the spreadsheet on my computer telling me that this hard launch coming up next week right before we hit the New York press circuit is going to smash the records for like companies.

  Instead I watch her because hell if everything about her isn’t distracting, and it’s not just right now. It’s not just because I know she’s naked beneath those covers and that her pussy feels like heaven. It just seems like everything these days comes to circle back around to Harlow.

  It’s been almost six weeks now and she still scares the shit out of me. The way she challenges me, makes me feel, makes me want to step away from the computer for no reason other than to sit on the couch with her and talk about trivial things or better yet, say nothing at all.

  Fuck.

  I run a hand through my hair and know it’s best that this is all ending soon. Shit, I’ve seen that look in her eyes. The one that says she’s wondering what if. I’ve seen the few times she forces herself to step away and collect herself. I know that this is much more than just a job for her at this point . . . and fuck if that doesn’t suck since that’s all it is to me.

  Keep telling yourself that and maybe you might start to believe it.

  Two weeks left. The launch. New York for a few days. Then we head home.

  This will end soon, and we’ll both go back to our different corners of the same city. We’ll be cordial to each other when there is future promotional stuff needed for SoulM8 but other than that, our we’re-just-here-for-the-sex will be over.

  We’ll move on.

  And I’ll be fine with that.

  Lie on top of fib on top of not-want-to-face-the-truth.

  Just like the one where I keep telling myself that wanting to spend time with someone as much as I want to with Harlow—in and out of the bedroom—is a completely normal thing.

  Work, Zane.

  The thought repeats in my head but I stand and crawl onto the bed beside her and just study her.

  All of this—the constant thinking about her, the never-ending want for her, the knowing when I reach out beside me, she’ll be there—it’s the direct result of being stuck together on this bus, on this trip, and doing all of the stupid excursions Robert made us do.

  The excursions I fought against but that somehow hold some of my best memories of this whole trip. Harlow in the wild, I like to call it. I smile at the thought, but all I can picture is her standing atop that ropes course with her smile wide and confidence wrapped around her like a goddamn shield of armor.

  I reach out to touch her. I can’t resist. About the same time that I do, her hazel eyes flutter open and stare straight into mine. Her face unknowingly turns into my hand on her cheek.

  It’s shit like that that gets me.

  “Morning,” she murmurs, her voice sounding like straight sex as it grabs me by the balls and doesn’t let go.

  Yep, definitely screwed.

  “HARLOW?”

  “Hi, Momma.”

  “Ahhh.” That’s it. She gives just the sound and nothing else.
/>   “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It happened, didn’t it mija?”

  “What are you talking about?” I laugh, but tears sting the back of my eyes because it feels so good to hear her voice. And it feels even better to have someone who understands me even though I haven’t really even said a word.

  “You went and fell for him.”

  “Mother.” Stern. Scolding. Desperate for her not to believe my tone and ask more.

  “Mothers know these things.” I open my mouth to speak and then close it, opting not to say a word and hoping she does. “So?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s a yes, then.”

  “No. It was an I don’t know.” I laugh, already frustrated and exasperated and this conversation has only been a few minutes long.

  “You repeating it means it was a double yes.”

  I twist my lip and walk a few feet closer to the shady tree I’m standing under. I take in the green around me, the little old couple in the distance holding each other up as they hobble along, and the big, black shiny coach on the other side of the park where Zane is inside working.

  If there’s anyone I can talk to my feelings about, it’s my mom, so why am I hesitating?

  Because if I say them out loud, then that means they are real.

  My voice is barely audible when I finally speak. “I’m just trying to be cautious.”

  “Why, mija?”

  “Because . . .” I chuckle. “For obvious reasons.”

  “You mean all of those reasons you didn’t like him in the first place? The he’s good looking, he’s successful, he challenges you . . . you mean all of those reasons?”

  I hate it when she makes things sound so simple when in reality they feel like you’re trying to put a thousand piece jigsaw puzzle together while being blindfolded.

  “I mean the ‘he doesn’t believe in love’ reason.”

  She tsks through the line. “That’s nonsense. Everybody believes in love even when they say they don’t. Everyone wants the fairytale even though they hide it.”

  “Do you still, Mom? Really? After what Dad did, do you?”

  “Oh sweetheart”—her voice floods with emotion—“of course I do. Love is . . . love is the one thing in life that doesn’t need to be taught. It just is. You can’t help it when you feel it. You can fight it—God knows I have in the past—but fighting it doesn’t do you any good. You’re still going to feel it even when the fight has run out.” I sit down on the grass and play with the wild daisies woven in it. “I take it that means you haven’t told him?”

  “That’s a big, fat no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not that simple.”

  “Yes, it is. You have no problem speaking up any other time, so why does the cat have your tongue now?”

  “Because this is almost over. I mean, we’re going to return to our everyday lives where we’re not forced to live with each other and play love interests every second we’re in public—”

  “But from what you’ve texted me, it seems like you’re playing love interests even when you’re not in front of people.”

  “True,” I muse and think back to the night at the arcade last week. The fun. The flirting. The conversation over the pinball machine. My promise to myself to just enjoy this all . . . and yet here I am still thinking about it.

  “You’re living together. You’re sleeping together—”

  “Mom!”

  “Mija,” she says and I can picture the expression on her face when she does. “Please don’t insult my intelligence and pretend that you aren’t.” She pauses to let me protest but it’s just better if I keep my mouth shut. “You’ve been on some kind of accelerated dating course in a sense. It’s natural for feelings to emerge. I don’t see what the big deal is because if they’ve evolved for you, how do you know they haven’t for him?”

  “Because I know him,” I murmur as my mind contradicts my words and pulls up every little thing he’s done away from the public eye that says the contrary.

  “Tell him.”

  “I hate opening myself up to hurt. Making myself vulnerable.”

  “Don’t we all?” she asks. “Look, you’ve always been tough. You’ve always stood your ground and spoke up for yourself, but you’re like that because of me. Because you watched how I let your father push me around. That’s not how it always is, Low. It’s okay to be vulnerable sometimes.”

  “Mom.” The single word relays so many things. That I’m scared she’s right. That I’m afraid she’s wrong. That I’m so confused and fear I’m making so much more of this than there really is.

  “I’m not saying don’t be strong. Men love strong women. But what I’m trying to tell you is don’t be afraid to be weak.”

  “Because that’s not confusing,” I say through a laugh and try to combat the tears suddenly welling from falling over.

  “A good man will know how to handle a woman in her moment of weakness, mija. He’ll listen to her and try to understand. Then when the moment is passed, he’ll pretend like he never saw that broken moment so he can let her retain her dignity even when she feels like she lost it. That’s the kind of man you’re looking for. The kind of man I secretly have a feeling this Zane Phillips is.”

  “The prince you’ve conjured him up to be.”

  “No, the man you unknowingly keep telling me he is.”

  “Perhaps,” I murmur, loving her words of wisdom but failing to see how it applies to me telling Zane that every time he kisses me, touches me, gives me that shy smile across the room at an event—that I feel every single one of them in my bones.

  “Admitting you have feelings for someone doesn’t make you weak, mija. It makes you strong.”

  THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR startles me but I honestly am so out of it, I don’t know if I said come in or not.

  I think I did.

  “Harlow?” Concern. Worry. “Zoey said you weren’t feeling well.” Footsteps on the hardwood floor. “You don’t look good at all.” A cold hand on my forehead. “You’re burning up.”

  “I’m fine. Just . . . just tired.”

  “Baby, you’re not fine.” Hands taking my heels off. “Zoey!” Fingertips brushing my hair off my face. A kiss pressed to my forehead.

  “Yes, Zane?” Zoey’s voice. Hushed voices.

  “Zane?” I call to him.

  “I’m right here.” His fingers linking with mine. “Just sit tight, Zoey’s going to get us a room so I can take you up there.”

  “No sex,” I murmur and his laugh fills the room.

  “No. No sex. But a big bed where you can sleep and get some medicine to break this fever.” A squeeze of our hands. “What else hurts?”

  “Head. Chills. Dizzy. Hot.” It feels like each word is a labor to say it.

  “Okay. Shh.”

  More footsteps. Heels clicking on wood. “Right this way, Zane.”

  “Hey, Cinder. I’m going to pick you up now and carry you to the room. Are you okay with that?”

  His arms slide around me. A soft “Here we go,” before being lifted up.

  I don’t remember much other than the scent of his cologne on his neck where I rest my forehead. The feeling that I’m okay now. His repeated murmur of “I’ve got you.”

  There’s the ding of the elevators.

  Zane muttering “Thank you, I’ve got it from here.”

  “But what about the event?” asks Zoey.

  “I’ll call you in a few.”

  The click of the door shutting and then a few seconds later the complete and utter softness of bed beneath me.

  “Hold tight. I’m going to sit you up for a second and take your dress off. Are you okay with that?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  A zipper, a pull of fabric with my arms up, the freedom when my bra is unclasped, then two hands slowly lying me down onto cool, cold sheets.

  Footsteps. The faucet running. More footsteps. The chill of a washcloth bein
g placed on my forehead.

  Then darkness.

  The muted sounds of the television.

  That’s what I hear first as I fight the grogginess that keeps pulling me under its blanket of comfort.

  Hints of memories float. Zane. A doctor. Zane. Medicine. Zane. Sleep.

  “Hey, you’re alive,” Zane’s soft murmur of a voice against the crown of my head and his arm tightening around my side is enough to startle me awake.

  When my eyes flutter open it takes me a second to take it all in: the soft luxury of the hotel room, the night skyline twinkling in the windows beyond, and the feel of Zane’s body against mine.

  “Hey,” I murmur and begin to sit up but he holds me in place.

  “Sit tight a moment. You’re bound to be dizzy,” he says and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You scared me there for a bit.”

  “What . . .?” I ask, full well knowing I was sick—the dull ache in my head and weird feeling in my body tells me that—but still wanting answers.

  “Here, let me help you sit up.”

  Zane helps pull me up to sit against the pillows piled along the headboard like he is. “You feeling any better?”

  I nod. “Yes . . . just disoriented.”

  “The doctor said this particular virus going around does that. He said it hits quick and hard, then is gone within forty-eight hours . . . so that means,” he says and looks at his watch, “you’ve got about twelve more hours to go.”

  “Twelve?”

  “Yes. You’ve definitely caught up on your sleep. I should have nicknamed you Sleeping Beauty and not Cinder.”

  I close my eyes and lean my head back on the pillow for a beat to make my head stop swimming.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  “No need to thank me.”

  “Yes there is.” I turn my head on the pillow so I can look at him. “You brought me up here, you put me in pajamas, you called a doctor, you took care of me.”

  “It’s not a big deal, you would have done the same for me.”