Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 44479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 222(@200wpm)___ 178(@250wpm)___ 148(@300wpm)
Hoping for it.
But instead, he clears his throat, the sound cutting through the tension like a knife. "Excuse me," he whispers, his voice low and rough, but there’s no heat behind it. No promise of a kiss. Just polite, awkward distance.
Mortified, I step back, my heart sinking into my stomach. Of course, this god-like creature doesn’t want me. What was I thinking? I’ve been deluding myself all night, imagining sparks between us that were never really there. I’m just Noelle, the coach’s daughter. Someone he has to tolerate for the sake of this ridiculous fake dating arrangement.
I move aside, clutching the counter like it’s a lifeline, trying to steady myself and hide the wave of embarrassment flooding through me. My cheeks burn, and I can’t bring myself to look at him as he reaches for the water bottle. My stomach twists with humiliation, realizing how stupid I must have looked, waiting for something that was never going to happen.
York moves past me, the space between us now feeling painfully wide, though I can still sense his presence like a shadow lingering in the room. He doesn’t say anything else, and I’m grateful for it. Any words right now would just make it worse. I focus on the cool surface of the counter beneath my fingers, trying to ground myself, trying to shake off the sting of rejection.
But it’s hard.
Because no matter how much I try to tell myself that this is just pretend, that York Steele would never be interested in someone like me, it doesn’t change the fact that, for a moment, I thought he was. And that brief flicker of hope? That’s what hurts the most.
“I’m heading back to bed,” I blurt out a little too quickly, desperate to escape the tension that’s still clinging to the air like static. “Night.” Without waiting for his reply, I rush down the hallway, my heart thudding in my chest. My cheeks are burning with embarrassment, and I just need to get away before I make an even bigger fool of myself.
Once I’m in the safety of my room, I fling myself onto the bed, my face buried in the pillow for a second before I grab my phone. I don’t even hesitate. I pull up Annabelle’s contact and start typing furiously.
Me: I don’t know why I thought fake dating my crush would be a good idea.
I hit send and stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as I wait for her reply. It doesn’t take long.
Annabelle: Not going well?
Me: I don’t know, but I felt like there were sparks earlier. And now I feel ridiculous.
Annabelle: Explain.
Taking a deep breath, I pour out the whole story. The sleigh ride, the way York looked at me like I was the only person in the world, the way my heart practically stopped when he stepped so close just now in the kitchen. I leave no detail out, describing how I thought for sure he was going to kiss me, only for him to step around me like I was in his way. It felt like a slap in the face.
When I’m done, I clutch the phone to my chest, waiting anxiously for her response. Annabelle’s always been the one to give it to me straight, and right now, I need that more than ever. My thoughts are swirling, and I’m second-guessing every single interaction we’ve had today.
The phone buzzes, and I glance down, my stomach knotting.
Annabelle: Looks don’t lie. Look at how into you he is.
She sends a photo, one of the paparazzi shots that I hadn’t seen yet. It’s York and me holding hands on the sidewalk earlier today. His eyes are on me, his expression soft, and there’s this almost stupidly adorable smile on his face. A part of me wants to believe it means something. That he’s not just pretending.
But I know better than that.
He’s an actor in this, same as me. And sure, he can turn on the charm. I mean, he’s York Steele, for crying out loud. A smile like that doesn’t mean he’s in love. It means he’s playing the part, doing his job, keeping up the act for the cameras and the public.
I stare at the photo, my heart aching with how perfect it looks. God, if only it were real.
Me: I don’t know, Annabelle. He’s so…polite. Like I’m just his friend’s daughter. I’m not sure he’d ever see me as anything more.
Annabelle: Girl, you’re blind if you don’t see the way he looks at you. Guys don’t look like that if they’re not into you.
I shake my head, trying to push down the creeping hope. It’s dangerous to hope for something that isn’t real, but there’s that small, insistent part of me that’s whispering maybe. Maybe there’s more to this than I think. Maybe the way he looked at me wasn’t entirely an act.