Page 195 of Faking the Goal

It's engraved into me now.

I could live a hundred years and still remember every second of it.

And fuck, I want more.

Not another kiss. Not another night of pretending she's mine until no one's around to watch us anymore. I want to be able to call her my girlfriend without that fucking word fake sitting between us.

There have been at least a dozen times over the past few days when I've almost asked her.

What if we stopped pretending?

The question is always right there, sitting on the tip of my tongue. Tonight, after she kissed me, it took everything in me not to finally let it out.

But I can't.

Not yet.

As much as I fucking hate admitting it, wanting her isn't enough. One kiss isn't enough either, no matter how impossible it is for me to stop thinking about it.

Taylor only just forgave me. I'm only beginning to earn back the trust I destroyed before I ever understood how much having it would matter to me. I can't take the first sign that she might feel something for me and turn it into another thing I want from her.

If I ask her to make this real, I want to know she's ready for that question. I want to know she trusts me enough to believe that I'm not playing with her, that this isn't another condition of our arrangement or some temporary attraction I'll forget the second it's over.

And maybe selfishly, I need to know I'm not the only one who wants it.

Because I can survive pretending to be Taylor Lewis' boyfriend for a little longer.

What I'm not sure I can survive is finally telling her I want the real thing and watching her look at me like the thought has never even crossed her mind.

Another frustrated grunt leaves me as I drag a hand down my face.

So I'll wait.

I'll give her whatever time she needs. I'll keep earning her trust instead of assuming I'm entitled to it just because she finally forgave me. And when I'm sure she's standing in the same place I am, I'll ask her.

The problem is, I have no fucking idea how long that's going to take.

A week?

Two?

I scowl.

Fuck.

At this rate, this fake relationship might actually kill me before I get the chance to make it real.

After another frustrated grunt, I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, still wide awake because of one fucking kiss. For the last several minutes, I've been trying to talk myself out of texting her, telling myself she's probably asleep and that I need to stop looking for excuses to talk to her just because I can't get her out of my head.

It doesn't work.

I finally give in, grab my phone from the nightstand, and open our chat.

ME

Still awake?

I stare at the screen, already annoyed with myself for giving in, and tell myself that if she doesn't answer soon, I'm putting the phone down and forcing myself to sleep. Then the little typing bubble appears at the bottom of our chat, and something warm and stupid immediately stirs in my stomach. Three little dots shouldn't have this much effect on me, but here I am, watching them like a fucking teenager waiting for his crush to text back.