Fake (West Hollywood 1)

If my brain had been functioning, I definitely would have responded.

He started fussing with the cushions on the couch. Unlike my room, his had a fireplace and a sitting area with two armchairs and a couch. A small couch. One he was never going to fit on lying down. This was an issue because his parents believed we were a real normal couple who shared the same room. And inside that room, there was only one bed. What were the odds I’d make it through the night without drooling or farting?

“C’mon. You can’t sleep on there.” I rose up on one elbow. “You’ll wake up with a whole-body cramp. If you manage to get to sleep at all.”

“Then I’ll just stretch out on the floor.”

“I can take the couch.”

“No,” he said.

Ugh. “Am I really that frightening or are you being overly polite?”

He just looked at me.

“Patrick, this bed is huge. We can share it no problem. Please.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I let my head fall back against the pillow. So soft. “Your virtue is safe with me.”

“Oh, good,” he drawled. “That’s exactly what I was worried about.”

“I can still wait a while, then slip back into my room if you’d prefer.”

He sighed. “I’d rather not risk it if that’s okay?”

“No problem.”

The mattress dipped slightly beneath his big body as he settled on the other side. I was in bed with Patrick Walsh. How thrilling. Or it would be if I wasn’t so tired. Today’s bullshit followed by tonight’s performance had exhausted me. Then, because I’m a genius, I knocked myself in the forehead.

“Ow,” I grumbled, rubbing at my skull.

“What?”

“Hit myself with the ring.”

His brows rose, but he apparently decided not to comment. On that subject at least. “Listen, I’m sorry my folks were such a handful, carrying on about babies and all that.”

“I thought the prenuptial question was fair enough, honestly. If a random stranger suddenly appeared attached to my well-to-do son, I’d want to know what the hell was going on.”

“Even if that child is almost forty?”

“Even then,” I said. “I can’t imagine you ever stop wanting to watch out for your children.”

He did not look convinced.

“It’s a good thing they care. You’re lucky to have them.”

“Hmm.”

“As for the push for us to reproduce . . . yeah. Your mom needs to calm down. The usage of my uterus is not up for public debate.”

“Agreed.”

“She’s a force of nature,” I said. “I notice your dad just kind of shuts up and lets her lead.”

“She’s definitely the one in charge there,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “When we were growing up, she was always involved in everything. Which was both good and bad. My friends all loved her, the way she took an interest in everything, but having to live with her getting all up in your business all the time was a lot.”

“Do you think maybe that’s part of why you’re so quiet? So reluctant to share your thoughts? Because she wasn’t great at giving you space?”

“Are you suggesting I have mommy issues?”

“One way or the other, everyone probably has mommy issues.”

“Maybe you’re right.” He sighed. “I have no idea.”

“Though having the general public sticking their nose into your life all the time would also do it.”

Only silence came from the other side of the bed.

The house was so still late at night. No city noises, muffled conversation, or the occasional slamming of doors, like at my old apartment. God only knew the thread count of the sheets I was lying on. I barely recognized my life these days.

“The real question here is, how good is the soundproofing in this room?” I asked.

He turned his head on the pillow in my direction.

I pulled the blankets up to under my chin. Despite wearing one of his big tees and my underpants, this whole situation felt revealing in a weird way. Me being in his bed. Him lying next to me. Us being together in an intimate setting. So of course I got nervous and couldn’t shut up. “I mean, do your parents expect us to be having sexual relations? Is that the next obvious step in our intricate portrayal of a crazy-in-love couple? Should I shout out ‘yes daddy yes’ or attempt some loud, vaguely orgasmic-sounding screeches or something?”

“No,” was all he said.

“Okay. Just checking.”

He reached out and clicked off the bedside lamp. The room went dark. And he was quiet for approximately half a minute. “These screeches . . . were you thinking pterodactyl?”

“Are you asking if I make dinosaur sounds when I have sex? Because that’s just plain rude. Seriously.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

I giggled in a somewhat maniacal fashion. “It would certainly make for strained conversation over the breakfast table tomorrow. God knows what your parents would think.”

He laughed quietly. It was a beautiful sound, all low and rough and thrilling.