Worst Faking Idea #2
I try to push past him, done with his bullshit, but he captures my forearm, his grip light but firm and warm. “Nora, I’m sorry. I just…” More laughter. “Sometimes I laugh at inappropriate times.”
No shit, but I stop in my tracks.
Because like it or not, the man has a point. We will have to deal with each other for the next who-knows-how-long. I have enough difficult relationships to navigate in my life—this doesn’t need to continue being one of them.
“I wasn’t telling Dad he should leave her,” he says earnestly. “I just tried to convince him they don’t need to submit the paperwork. My mother worked him over in the divorce. He had to give her half of everything, even his dog.”
“How’d he give her half a dog?”
“They had a custody schedule.” His lips curl upward, nearly a smile but not quite. The C+ of smiles. “Color-coded. Shared holidays.”
“Holy shit,” I mutter. “Did they have one for you too, or just the dog?”
His smile stretches wider. “It was generally agreed upon that while Daisy required intervention, their twenty-one-year-old son could decide for himself. But it would have made things easier if they’d gone for it.
Then I wouldn’t have to deal with the back-and-forth texts every Thanksgiving and Christmas. ”
“Sounds like a passive-aggressive nightmare. I’m glad it’s not like that with my parents.”
Because my father was a cheater who treated my mother horribly.
As far as I’m concerned, he can spend the holidays by himself or with whatever age-inappropriate woman he’s “dating.” Sure, I used to look up to him.
But I used to eat chicken livers when I was a kid too.
Let it never be said that my past self had good judgment.
Cormac makes a humming sound in his throat. “The great thing about passive aggression is that it can largely be ignored, especially if you’re not good at identifying it in the first place.”
I actually laugh, which comes a surprise to both of us. Then we seem to simultaneously realize that he is still, for some ungodly reason, touching my arm. He drops his hand instantly, as if I’m the hot potato who just lost him a game.
“Should we arrange a custody schedule for our parents?” I ask.
He laughs again, and I’m charitable enough to acknowledge it’s a nice laugh. Deep and rich. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. If I have to watch them make out, I’d prefer not to do it alone.”
He has a point about this, too. Our parents, both of whom are card-carrying members of AARP, act like they’re teenagers who just discovered mouths could do something other than talk and eat. “What about Daisy the dog?”
“I only have her memory to keep me company, and I can’t bring my dog to their house.”
“You have a dog?”
“Yeah. She’s on two different anxiety medications.”
“Like father, like daughter.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you’re one of those people who acts like a dog is a child.”
I laugh at the open disdain in his voice. “I don’t even have a dog.”
The look on his face suggests that’s for the best—for the dog.
“I’d be a great pet owner,” I lie.
I spend so little time in my apartment that it took me a week to realize there was a leak under the kitchen sink, and another week to get it fixed.
“Okay.”
He seems unconvinced, so I offer, “I’ll watch your dog the next time you have an out-of-town show with your band. You’ll see.”
“You want to watch a dog who’s on two anxiety medications?”
“Yes,” I lie. “I’d love to.”
“All right. We have a show in Atlanta next weekend.” He pauses, glancing at the door to the office, before looking back in my general direction. “Look…I really do want us to get along. I’m willing to let the thing with the science experiment go.”
I narrow my gaze at him. “I’ve told you at least twenty times it was an accident.”
“Do you think that means you aren’t at fault?” He adjusts his glasses again. “If you mowed someone down on the street because you were looking at your phone screen instead of driving, you don’t think you should face consequences for that?”
“I apologized,” I say tightly. “Do you want me to get on my knees and beg for forgiveness?”
His lips part, and a strange look fills his eyes. Almost as if—
No. He’s made it very clear he finds me unappealing, and the sentiment is decidedly mutual. In high school, he was a nerd who couldn’t be bothered to be nice to anyone, and I’ve seen nothing to suggest he’s changed.
“Are you really going to get down on your—”
A strangled sound escapes him as I lower onto my knees on the wood floor. It was that look in his eyes that did it—almost a challenge. Or maybe disbelief that someone like me would ever apologize.
I glance up at him, soaking in his surprise.
“Cormac Peebles,” I say, my voice filled with honey. “Will you please forgive me for making out with Justin Greene behind your display. He was very dreamy, and I couldn’t help myself. It was completely unplanned, and I regret that your robot paid the price.”
He sighs, shaking his head, but his eyes are hooked on me. I’ve officially captured his attention. He reaches down and offers me a hand. “Get up, Nora.”
I take it, grinning like an idiot, but my heel twists to the side as he’s giving me a boost. I tumble into him, and for half a second I’m pressed against his chest. Shock ripples through me, chased by the realization that he’s surprisingly firm. He—
The door creaks open, revealing Pansy in the doorway in a pink taffeta princess dress. She gasps so theatrically I can only conclude she’s practiced it multiple times.
“What would Marco say?” she asks in a gasped exhale.