Fake Out (Fake Boyfriend 1)

I laugh, but it’s mostly fake. After last night’s dream, and the stuff I haven’t told him, I wonder if he has a point.

“I’m messing with you,” he says, picking up on my vibe.

“I know.”

“Let’s just get through this wedding, okay?” he says. “Then tomorrow we’ll go our separate ways, and we never have to speak of this awkwardness again. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I can do that.”

***

“Your tie is uneven,” Damon says as we get out of the car at the church.

“Are you going to take my man card?” I force the joke, because the reason my tie is crooked—apart from not knowing how to tie one properly—is because I was too damn distracted by a half-naked Damon when I was trying to tie it. I understand what he meant last night when he said he doesn’t look at guys in locker rooms. It seemed wrong to watch him dress, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away. He’s all muscle and hard edges.

I’ve looked at other guys before, but I wouldn’t have said I’ve checked them out. Now, I’m not sure that’s true. Guys compare themselves to each other all the time … right?

“Can I fix it?” Damon asks.

“Please.”

Damon’s hands shake as he loosens the tie around my neck and reties it, and he fumbles with the knot numerous times.

“Thought you said you know what you’re doing?” I ask.

“It’s harder doing it on someone else.”

“That’s what he said.”

Even though he fights it, Damon breaks out in a smile. “Stacy warned me you’d make those jokes.”

“I can’t help it. I’m five years old.”

“Clearly.”

“Speaking of your sister, have you heard from her?”

“I got a call and two texts while we were at lunch,” Damon says. “But I haven’t opened them. She gets mad when the phone says I’ve read her texts and I haven’t responded.”

“I need to try that tactic. I’ve had three texts—the third one telling me to stop ignoring her. Part of me wants to screw with her and tell her it was love at first sight between us.”

His fingers still. “You’re as bad as each other.”

“Hey, she had a guy turn up in that ridiculous outfit pretending to be you. I need payback.”

“That guy borrowed the outfit from me,” Damon deadpans.

I pull back and cock my head.

“What? I can’t make jokes?”

“I was trying to figure out if you were serious.” And trying really hard not to picture it. That image shouldn’t be inviting, damn it.

“All done.” He pats my tie.

I reach for his bowtie to straighten it. “I don’t think I’m doing anything here. I’ve just seen people do that in movies and shit. How do you even know how to tie one of these things?”

“I have a secret James Bond fetish.” When I don’t respond, Damon laughs. But when our eyes meet, the light-hearted moment is gone, and it’s replaced with tension. “Ready to do this?” he asks, his voice gruff. “This isn’t going to be like hanging out with your parents today. You’re going to have to touch me.”

“I’m okay with that.” My feet step forward and my hands run up his chest. For some reason, my brain thinks this is appropriate. Why, I have no fucking clue. I watch my hands as they plant themselves on Damon’s shoulders.

He stiffens but doesn’t move. I’m pretty sure he’s not even breathing.

My gaze moves up to his lips, and I wonder what they taste like. My mouth dries, and my tongue feels thick. The scents of our colognes mix, one woodsy and the other musk, somehow creating a smell that reminds me of sex.

What the fuck?

“Aww, aren’t you two cute,” Jared says.

Damon and I jump apart. “He was helping me with my tie,” I say, probably a little too defensively.

Will eyes me in suspicion. “We should go inside.”

I have no idea what just came over me, but it makes me a dick. Chastity’s wedding is sending me crazy. Yup, that sounds like a legit reason to think about kissing my fake boyfriend.

As soon as our feet cross the threshold of the church, the walls close in and I begin to sweat.

“You okay?” Damon asks and pulls me back.

Jared and Will take their seats.

“Yeah. It’s, uh … hot in here.”

“No, it’s not.”

I swallow hard. “I may be having a minor panic attack about the fact this was almost me a few years back.”

Damon steps forward to speak low. “Repeat after me: it’s not my wedding.”

“Not my wedding.” My voice gets stuck in my throat.

“Say it until you believe it. We should go sit down before you pass out.” He drags me over to the pews, and I take the seat next to Jared, but my leg bounces. Damon puts his hand on my thigh to get it to stop.

My brain repeats Damon’s mantra. Not my wedding. Not my wedding. Not my wedding.