Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 57139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57139 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
The call ended with a click.
I stared at my phone like it had burned me.
Inside, I could hear Harper humming to herself over the sound of running water, completely unaware that I’d just pulled the devil back into our orbit.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
HARPER
So…it wasn’t supposed to…do that. It’s a medical condition, I have a doctor’s note and everything. Want me to send it? I’ll send it anyways.
—Kyron
Our first official outing meaning, one we actually filmed since he was the only one I actually chose one more date with, was exactly what I expected: forced, awkward, and stupid.
Dinner was a disaster. Ezra looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, his jaw tight every time the camera’s clicked around us. Graham had sent a skeleton crew. A guy with a camera and a producer who would randomly ask questions and a sound dude, that was it. Suddenly it felt real and it felt hella awkward and stupid. I tried to play along, smile for the network, but halfway through the meal he muttered under his breath, “this is why we’d never work.”
I snapped my head up. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t even flinch. “You hate being here. I hate being here. Why are we pretending?”
My blood boiled. “Maybe because you crashed my life like a wrecking ball in designer jeans and now we’re both stuck in this mess?”
The cameras were loving it. Our poor waitress looked like she wanted to crawl under the table.
By the time we left, I was vibrating with irritation. And then—because apparently the universe has a sense of humor—our next stop was an escape room.
Perfect. Lock me in a small space with him. What could possibly go wrong?
Spoiler: everything.
He wanted to brute-force every puzzle. I wanted to actually read the clues. Within twenty minutes we were snapping at each other like feral cats.
“Well, I guess this is it,” I muttered, throwing up my hands. “We just die miserably together, in a fake dungeon, because we can’t even solve a riddle about shapes.”
He glared at me, arms crossed. “Fitting end, really.”
The camera operator in the corner looked like Christmas had come early.
We finally stumbled out, sweaty, annoyed, and very much not hand-in-hand. The ride home was quiet enough to hear our own teeth grinding.
Back at the apartment, he mumbled something about a shower and disappeared. I didn’t hear the water running, so I stormed in—ready to yell—only to be greeted with full-frontal Ezra.
I froze. He froze.
We stood there like idiots until he casually grabbed a towel, like this was fine. He padded to the kitchen, and because my brain had apparently short-circuited, I followed.
He opened the fridge, completely unfazed, while I hovered in the doorway trying to remember how to breathe.
That’s when I saw it—movement outside. A shadow. A camera lens catching the glow of the fridge light.
“Ezra.” I hissed. “We’re being watched.”
Sure enough, a flash went off. My phone buzzed seconds later: a notification. TRENDING: #VexAndHarper FAKING IT?
Ezra shut the fridge door, his expression hardening. He stepped close, crowding me until my back hit the counter. His hand slid to the back of my head, holding me there.
“We’re ruining it already,” he said, voice low. “Or maybe you are.”
I didn’t even think—I punched him in the chest.
He caught my wrist, spun me, and suddenly his mouth was on mine.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire and fury and every unsaid thing between us exploding at once.
We tripped against the wall, mouths crashing, teeth clashing. His hand gripped my hip, mine tangled in his hair, both of us kissing like it was a fight neither of us wanted to lose.
And then—another flash.
Somewhere outside, a camera caught it all.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
HARPER
Hey, my probation officer told me about this great taco place, want to do shots? Tequila is the only shot legal for me right now.
—Milo
Ididn’t sleep. Not one second.
Instead, I stared at the ceiling and tried to not remember how my best friend tasted. Which worked about as well as telling myself not to breathe.
The force of his mouth. The sweetness of his tongue. The way his hands gripped anything he could just to keep me close. He was violently smooth—charismatic, annoyingly perfect. How dare he be good at everything?
This. This was why we couldn’t have nice things.
Men like him were the problem. They gave you expectations and then turned out to be gay. Or taken. Or gay and taken.
I sat up so fast I nearly levitated.
Holy shit.
Maybe he was. Maybe that’s why he’d never hit on me. Which was… better than the alternative—that he’d never been attracted to me at all.
I looked down at my T-Rex pajamas and grimaced. Okay. Maybe not helping my case.
I crept out of my room. He was sprawled across the couch like some ancient king draped over his throne, limbs everywhere, just to make sure people knew who owned what.