Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Alycia
“Are you coming?” I ask, my voice lighter than I feel.
He looks at me for a heartbeat too long before answering. “Yeah, right behind you.”
The words roll through me like a touch, and I turn before he can see my face, heading down the hallway to the elevator, trying to pretend I don’t feel his eyes on me.
I took the stairs earlier because it felt safer—more room, more air, fewer opportunities to do something reckless with him too close—but we’re already running late, and my pride won’t let me admit that’s the real reason.
“Thought you didn’t like elevators,” he says, catching up beside me.
“I don’t.”
“So why the change of heart?”
“We don’t have time for two flights of cardio.” I keep my eyes on the glowing call button, trying to ignore the low amusement in his voice.
He leans in just enough that his shoulder almost brushes mine. “You sure you’re not just testing my self-control?”
I look up at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. “You think I’d lose it first?”
“I know you would.”
Cocky, confident, and absolutely right. The memory of him teasing me earlier runs through my head and lodges there, vivid and dangerous. “Not sure I’d survive being that close to you again in a box that small.”
“You know, you’re the one who said elevators make you nervous.”
He grins, all trouble and dimples. “Since you started getting in them with me.”
Those damn dimples are going to be my undoing.
I hate that about myself, or maybe I don’t, because when they appear, the rest of the world just…
fades. It’s ridiculous how one smile can send heat crawling up my neck.
I shouldn’t be staring, but I can’t look away.
There’s something dangerous about the way he smiles, like he already knows exactly what it does to me.
It’s unfair, the way he can undo me with something as simple as a grin.
My stomach flips, warm and traitorous, and I have to breathe carefully to keep from doing something stupid.
The soft chime of the elevator arriving on my floor echoes too loudly in the empty corridor.
When the doors slide open, I step inside, and the minute he steps in behind me, I know I’ve made a mistake.
The flickering light above me pulses too bright, that sharp, sensory sting in my skull I always get when a space is too tight and too loud at the same time.
I shift closer to the buttons, needing something to do with my hands.
Kyle moves to my side, close enough that the sleeve of his jacket grazes my arm.
The contact shouldn’t mean anything, but it does.
It’s just fabric, but my body doesn’t know the difference.
I focus on the glowing numbers overhead, counting each floor as if it’ll steady me.
Two floors. That’s it. Two minutes, maybe less.
I can survive that, except I can feel him not just beside me but around me.
“You hate elevators?” he asks, voice quiet and a little rough.
“Not usually. Just thinking this was a bad idea.”
“Because of me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“That wasn’t a no.”
“You’re impossible.” My lips twitch before I can stop them.
“That’s what you like about me.”
I risk a glance up, and the corner of his mouth curves again—dimples and all. My stomach flips. I tell myself it’s nerves, but I know damn well it isn’t.
The elevator slows, and my balance tilts.
My hand instinctively reaches for him. Our fingers barely touch.
His skin is warm against mine, and my breath catches in my throat before I can stop it.
His hand twitches—small, reflexive—but it’s enough.
That single movement ripples through me like the echo of something I already know.
It isn’t just a crush or bad timing or nerves.
It’s the kind of spark that changes the air between two people, quiet but impossible to ignore.
It’s like something in me recognizes something in him, and it feels both inevitable and wrong.
And the worst part? I know he feels it, too.
I can see it in the way his jaw tightens and the way his throat works once, like he’s swallowing something he doesn’t want me to see.
The space between us buzzes with electricity.
I should move. Say something. Do anything.
But I don’t. I just stand there, heartbeat thrumming so hard I can feel it in my throat.
I drop my hand, stepping back an inch that feels like miles.
I can still feel the ghost of his touch, the warmth lingering where our skin met.
Get a grip, Alycia. He’s not yours. This isn’t that.
His fingers flex, a small, sharp movement that feels far too intimate for something so innocent.
The tension coils tight enough to ache. I can’t move, can’t speak, and can barely breathe.
God, I want him to touch me just once, but wanting doesn’t make this real.
It’s one night. One lie. A favor that ends the minute my mom says goodbye.
“You’re quiet.” He shifts beside me, the small movement breaking the silence.
“Trying not to embarrass myself.”
His laugh is low and somehow even worse than his smile. It slides under my skin and stays there. “Sweetheart, if you’re embarrassed, I’m definitely doing something right.”
The doors open before I can come up with an answer. I step out first, pretending my knees aren’t shaking. I don’t look back, but I can feel him smiling. And the worst part is, I want to look. But I know if I do, I won’t be able to stop.
The doors slide shut behind us with a soft thud, sealing the moment in. The hallway feels too quiet, the air too thin. I take a breath and start walking, pretending I’m not hyperaware of him just a step behind me.
Kyle moves closer when we reach the lobby, catching the glass door before it swings shut and holding it open for me. The gesture shouldn’t feel intimate, but it does.
“Thank you,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He tips his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t strike me as the polite type.”
“Only when someone doesn’t let a door hit me in the face.”
“That’s a low bar, sweetheart.”
“Good,” I murmur, stepping past him. “Means you might actually clear it.”
“You keep talking like that, I’m gonna start thinking you like me.” He laughs under his breath, and the sound settles somewhere between my ribs.
“Relax. I barely tolerate you.”
“Lucky me… but I plan to change that.”
The rain has stopped, leaving everything slick and shining under the glow of the streetlights. I wrap my arms around myself, wishing I’d grabbed a jacket.
He stops beside my car and turns to me, palm outstretched, that smug little grin tugging at his mouth. “Keys?”
It takes me a second to realize what he’s asking. I fumble in my bag, find them, and hand them over. Our fingers brush briefly, and the tension between us sparks to life again, but this time, he doesn’t pull back right away, and neither do I.
“Are you always this jumpy?” he asks, mouth curved like he already knows the answer.
“Only when strange men follow me into elevators.”
He chuckles, the sound low and rough. “You’re cute when you lie.”
“Cute,” I echo, rolling my eyes, because it’s easier than admitting what that one word does to me.
“You like being called cute?”
“I prefer being called right.”
“Then we’re both in trouble.”
The banter between us is a shield, flimsy but necessary.
It’s the only thing keeping me from blurting out something reckless because underneath every jab and smart remark, there’s this pulse of awareness I can’t shut off.
Every time he smirks, every time his voice drops just a little too low, it feels like he’s peeling back layers I didn’t mean to show him.
And I can’t decide whether I want him to stop or keep going.
Neither of us says anything. The quiet between us feels heavier than the words we were just throwing around. He’s still looking at me, and I do what I always do when I feel cornered. I reach for humor.
“Already acting like it’s your car?” I tease, breaking the silence before I drown in it.
He lifts one shoulder, unlocking the door with lazy confidence. “Just trying to make sure my fake girlfriend gets the full-service experience.”
“Is that what you call this?”
I start toward the passenger side, the gravel crunching under my shoes. He falls into step with me, close enough that I can feel his presence without looking and reaches the door a beat before I do.
He opens it, then pauses, resting one hand on the frame as he looks at me over the roof, eyes glinting under the streetlight. “Depends on how the night ends.”
I try for an eye roll, but it doesn’t land. He waits until I slide in before leaning down to buckle my seat belt. His hand brushes my collarbone on the way back, and my entire body locks up.
“I can do it,” I say a little too quickly.
“I know.” His voice dips lower, quiet and certain. “But you let me anyway.”
My pulse kicks so hard it steals the next breath right out of my chest. The entire world seems to shrink to the space between us, to the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that exists. It makes me want to forget everything else—the fake date, the rules, the reason we’re even here.
He straightens up and shuts the door with a soft click. A second later, he’s in the driver’s seat beside me, the hum of the engine breaking the silence.
“Address?” he asks, fingers already on the GPS screen.
“4828 Northeast Going St.”
He repeats it under his breath; the sound of it in his voice is doing something I don’t want to name. The drive is comfortable and unbearable all at once. Every few blocks, I catch him glancing at me, like he’s trying to memorize something he doesn’t want to forget.
I focus on the streetlights flicking across the windshield, each one washing his profile in gold before letting him slip back into shadow.
He looks calm and collected, as if none of this touches him.
And maybe that’s what does it. The realization that I’m sitting here coming undone while he looks perfectly fine.
A shiver crawls up my spine before I can stop it.
Not from the cold, but from him. From the quiet that feels too intimate, from the weight of every unspoken thing I don’t dare say.
“You cold?” he asks just as I reach for the dial.
Our hands brush again, another small contact that feels anything but. He clears his throat, eyes on the road.
“Guess we’re both cold.”
“Must be.”
But we both know that isn’t it.
The GPS chimes for the last turn, and he slows as we pull up the narrow drive.
The porch light glows soft and golden against the blue-gray siding, the kind that makes the whole street look like a postcard.
The same wicker swing sits on the front porch, a little faded, and the flowerbeds spill over with wild hydrangeas that have taken over since the last time I trimmed them.
“Here we are.”
“This is where you grew up?” He glances around, taking it in.
“Yeah.”
“It’s nice,” he says, and somehow makes it sound like he means it. “Feels like a place people come back to.”
“You’d be the first to say that.”
“Then make sure that I’m quoted correctly.”
My chest tightens at the teasing way he says it, but with something underneath that sounds almost careful.
It is as if he’s paying attention and wants to ensure he gets this right.
Most people don’t. They see the small house, the old porch swing, the flowerbeds that never quite stay trimmed, and they make assumptions.
But he looks at it as if he’s seeing me in it.
Like this place tells him something he’s been quietly trying to figure out since the elevator.
It’s disarming and exactly the kind of thing that makes me forget this is supposed to be pretend.
I look away before he can see too much. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”
He grins wider, studying the house again with one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel.
“Just trying to get the details right,” he says, eyes still tracing the porch like he’s memorizing it. “You know… for research.”
“Research,” I repeat, glancing at him from the corner of my eye. “Sure.”
He finally looks at me, and something about it pins me in place. His tone is playful, but his gaze isn’t. “I can’t play the part if I don’t understand the story.”
I want to tell him it’s just a house. There’s nothing here to understand, but my throat feels too tight.
“Right,” I manage, the word catching. “Wouldn’t want to mess up your performance.”
“Don’t read too much into it, sweetheart,” he says softly. “Just trying to know what I’m getting myself into.”
It’s meant as a tease, but it doesn’t sound like one. I turn before he can see my face, feeling his unflinching eyes burning through every layer I thought I could hide behind.
The porch light flickers once, a soft buzz in the quiet, but I can’t make my feet move. Not while I can still feel him watching me.
Because for the first time all night, I’m terrified that this isn’t pretend anymore.
And worse, I’m not sure I want it to be.