Hell, I could barely afford a fucking sandwich in this place.
“Well?” I said, urging him to pick up where he’d left off.
“How long does it take to get ready for a wedding?”
“How long is a piece of string?”
“Ah. It’s like that.”
“Have you ever been with women getting ready for a wedding?”
“No,” Adam drawled. “Funnily enough, Red, it’s frowned upon for a man to be in a room with a bunch of half-naked women.”
I sipped my champagne and side-eyed him. “Wow. You need to watch more porn.”
He choked on his champagne, smacking his fist against his chest. I bit back a laugh as his eyes watered the tiniest amount and he looked at me.
“What?” I asked. “It’s true. It’s not always frowned upon. Sometimes it’s celebrated.”
“Yes, but I think that’s mostly relegated to the lifestyles of those who like that kind of thing. Or get paid for it.”
“Are you judging?”
“Do you swing?”
“Only when people swing at me first.”
This time, his choke was a laugh. “Not punch-swinging. Sex swinging.”
I blinked at him. “Before you, my last sexual encounter was with my right hand, so no, I’m not a swinger.”
“Good to know.”
“Did you even need to clarify that?”
“No, but I just enjoyed making you uncomfortable for a minute there.”
“You’re a sick man.”
He laughed, turning his head to meet my eyes. “Why? Because it’s fun to see you pull back your mask of confidence once in a while?”
“What mask?”
“See; you don’t even know you do it.”
I shifted, turning toward him and tucking my legs to the side. “Do what?”
“You’re a self-proclaimed disaster, but all I’ve seen this weekend is you pulling the strings and holding everything together. You controlled your sister during her freak outs. You managed to get your mom out of the way—”
I held up a finger and shook it side to side. “That only worked because she wanted to feel our relationship out.”
“And we convinced her. Somehow, you managed to not freak and tell her everything. You corralled your grandpa into leaving a strip club—”
“How do you know that?”
“I talked to Mark. Obviously.” He quirked a brow. “Stop interrupting me.”
“But it’s more fun when I do. You make a lot less sense when it’s interspersed with my bullshit.” I smiled as I sipped.
Adam shook his head, sipping, too. “I’m just saying. You’re more put together than you give yourself credit for.”
“Except for when I slipped on the bathroom floor.”
“Except for when you slipped on the bathroom floor,” he agreed, shooting me a glance out of the side of his eye. His lips twitched, tugging up to one side in a smile that matched the spark in his eyes.
I looked down, breaking the connection of our gaze. My cheeks were burning, and butterflies were going crazy in my tummy. I couldn’t even blame the shiver that ran over my arms on the breeze—it wasn’t strong enough to get me while I was protected by the strong glass fencing.
It was him.
All him.
And once again, Rosie’s words came back to haunt me.
“You’re doing a really good job of pretending you’re into each other.”
I fucking wished I was pretending. I fucking wished I didn’t get butterflies when he looked at me or shivers when he touched me. I wished I hadn’t had that fairytale-style kiss with him in the parking lot.
I wished I wasn’t sitting next to him right now, wishing we could close the gap between us so I could tuck myself into his side.
More than anything, I wished I wasn’t even in this position.
Why hadn’t I just walked away when I’d woken up in his bedroom? Why had my awkward ass asked him to be my date? I should have known better. Hadn’t I seen a hundred romcom movies about this?
And if not, why not? Someone needed to make a few.
Warning: Take a fake date, and it might not be so fake.
I hated thinking that. We were different worlds. Not in terms of money or status or stature, but sports was not my thing. I was not the girl who could ever stand in sidelines and pretend I cared about what the hell I was watching.
I also highly doubted I was the kind of girl who could ever sit and learn the rules of any kind of sport that wasn’t beer pong.
Was that even a legit sport? Or had I just wasted my teen years on a mindless game that did nothing but make me a master beer drinker by high school graduation?
Eh. Either way, I was good with it. I was holding my gold medal high and proud.
“Poppy? Are you all right?” Adam reached over and pushed hair away from my eyes.
“Thinking,” I said softly. “About something Rosie said earlier.”
“Care to share with the class?”
Smirking, I elbowed him. “She knows this isn’t real.”
“Shock horror,” he muttered.
Another elbow headed his way before I drew into myself. I twirled the champagne glass by its stem, my fingers drawing lines in the condensation of the glass as the warmth of my fingertips beat the coldness of the alcohol.